


Bristow's 11

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M, Heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a hapless courier loses a Rambaldi artifact at the Xanadu Casino in Las Vegas, all our characters take part in a casino heist masterminded by Jack Bristow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bristow's 11

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the last two episodes of Alias' third season.

Jack Bristow stood in the center of the restaurant that topped the Xanadu Casino and Resort in Las Vegas, taking in the spectacle that lay before him. Beyond the restaurant's windows stretched the city in all its gaudy splendor: the Eiffel Tower in pink, the Great Wall of China in blue, the canals of Venice to his left, the Great Pyramids to his right, all of it spotlighted and aglow in the darkness.

If only it were really all this close, he thought. I'd have a hell of a lot less jet lag.

Stepping around various tables to get closer to the glass, he slipped his cell phone from the chest pocket of his tuxedo. Of course, this particular cell phone had a few extras – one of which he needed at the moment. Jack tapped what looked like an ordinary redial key, then murmured: "Final call. Check in."

One by one, they answered.

**

Sydney was standing in a dressing room, staring at breasts.

At first she'd been embarrassed, then asked herself a few questions about her orientation, then realized that, no – when you were surrounded by breasts this enormous, this fake, this plentiful, and this abundantly decorated with rhinestones, there was nothing to do but stare.

At her father's voice, she tilted her head, pretending to adjust the heavy, feathered headdress she wore. "Checking in. Situation normal."

He didn't reply; she didn't expect him to. Just as well – there was something unnerving about trying to think of her father in a room with three dozen half-naked showgirls.

Make that three dozen OTHER half-naked showgirls, Sydney corrected herself, glimpsing her own outfit in the mirror. She had a silvery bikini top, like the other girls who would be out on the floor instead of onstage. At first, when she'd gotten that assignment, she'd been relieved. But now, staring at C and D cups that levitated unnaturally, she found herself looking down and musing, Is this just a hint to get a Wonderbra?

To hell with it. She checked her look in the mirror once more – long, feathery brunette wig, platinum lipstick, fake lashes that glittered and about ten square inches of strategically placed silver spandex. Sydney smiled and whispered, "Showtime."

"This your first time, honey?" one of the other dancers said.

"Oh, you know," Sydney said. "Not exactly."

**

Vaughn leaned against a fuse box and muttered into the brim of his cap, "Everything's good here."

Nobody heard him, it seemed; a few stagehands for the show were pushing a cart nearby, but they were concentrating on their task, trying to maneuver weight and wheels over various taped-down cables. Vaughn stared up at the lights, able to feel the intensity of their heat even from twenty feet below. Already, the cheap gray polyester of his uniform felt sticky and uncomfortable.

The lights were ugly, viewed from behind – knotted black wires, heavy metal clamps, duct tape in Xs everywhere. Out in the audience it would look beautiful – silver-white beams streaming through the darkness. Here, it was just hardware.

Maybe it always looked like that, when you got down to the core of beauty. Maybe it was all an illusion. Maybe everything beneath was ugly and basic and hard, just there to do a job.

Vaughn closed his eyes and breathed out hard, thinking only, Concentrate.

Then he strolled down the corridor, the dim lights reflecting off the badge on his chest that read SECURITY.

**

"We got it covered," Weiss said, then grimaced and turned down the radio, so Marva Whitney wasn't blaring into Jack Bristow's ear. "It's all working."

"According to the terms of the agreement," Jack replied, "I need to hear from you both."

Weiss rolled his eyes, then said, "I haven't used my gun. Not because I didn't want to."

Jack didn't laugh. Big shock there. "Hand over the phone, Retriever."

With a sigh, Weiss held out his cell to the woman sitting next to him in a loose, sunflower-patterned dress, frizzy brown wig and dreamcatcher earrings. Ridiculous outfit, in Weiss' opinion, but as he was wearing a bright yellow tie-dyed T-shirt, pajama pants and a hairpiece that made him look like Gregg Allman, in a bad way, he didn't have much room to talk. Just a good reason to kick Marshall's ass. "Talk to the man."

Lauren Reed snatched the phone from Weiss' hand, scowling at him. How had he known her for two and a half years without ever noticing the scowl factor? That girl could contort her face like crazy. Like a Muppet or something. "I'm here, Watchtower. The plan is still on-target."

No reply. Jack just hung up. Weiss wished he could do the same.

"Shouldn't we be toking up?" He gestured at the VW van they were camped in, its faded orange paint a standout in a parking lot full of dark, shining rental cars. "The people we're playing, they'd definitely be high by now."

"If only," Lauren snapped, which would've been funny if he hadn't wanted to punch her in the face. She slapped the car's radio, and the Godfather of Soul pounded out the rhythm again.

**

"Everything's going quite well here, Watchtower." Julian Sark stood on the other side of the highway, gazing up at the emerald-neon outline of the Xanadu Casino. If Bristow was following his own plan, he was at the very top of that structure at the moment, maybe even now looking down at Sark himself. A rather precarious position to be in, all things considered.

He shut off the signal to Bristow, then hit the sequence of numbers that would, within five minutes, turn his cell phone into a detonator.

Then he dropped the would-be detonator in his pocket, straightened his tie, and began strolling away from the area. He had plenty of time to put some distance between him and the explosives.

**

"Me? I'm fine and dandy, peachy as they say, or maybe they used to say. I guess peachy is sort of old slang, kind of out of date, you think? Would you say peachy is current?"

Jack didn't reply right away, then said, "You're on schedule?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely." Marshall Flinkman stopped to admire himself in one of the mirrored panels on a column on the gaming floor of the Xanadu: mullet, acid-washed jeans, red T-shirt in honor of Dale Earnhart. Perfect. He was surrounded by slot machines, roulette wheels, noise and color and light and a million different permutations of probability. The equations for any one of these games were simple, but when you started trying to put them together – "There's some serious math going down here."

"Does that mean there's a problem?"

Marshall would never understand why so many people responded negatively to math. "Doing good. Doing real good. Talk to you soon, Mr., ah, I mean, Watchtower, sir."

Silence followed, with Marshall took to be a good sign. Clapping his hands together, he looked for – and found – a blackjack table. "Let's play us some cards, shall we?"

**

"I'm here, of course," said Arvin Sloane. "Though I have little enough to do, at this point. You could have given me more of a role in this, you know."

"As a sign of trust?" Jack's voice was dry enough to crack the cell phone into powder.

"As a sign that we now have to work together. As we always have done. And as we always will, whether you like it or not."

"Those days are coming to an end."

Sloane smiled. "But not tonight."

There was no reply. He hadn't really expected one. Sloane had gotten in the last word, but he could take little pleasure in such hollow triumph. Standing here in this hotel room – luxurious, even palatial, but impersonal all the same – Sloane was reminded, as he too often was these days, of the dark truth of Pyrrhic victory.

He could not question if it was all worth it, any more than Jack Bristow could. He could only make his next move in the game.

**

Dixon straightened his bow tie, pretending to have some difficulty with it. "Standing by," he said smoothly.

"Good," Jack replied, the relief in his voice evident. "The two members who can't check in by voice have sent their codes. We can proceed."

Beginning his shift at the blackjack table would be the signal that set this entire heist in motion. Dixon had his doubts about it; Jack's strategic skills were second to none, but this plan had so many variables, so many twists and turns.

Then again – when you were in the field, sometimes you just had to ignore the damn variables and get the job done. And, as the adrenalin coursing through his veins was reminding him, it had been too long since Marcus Dixon had been in the field.

Quickly he brushed his hands over the red vest he wore as part of his dealer's uniform, then said, "I'm headed to the table now."

Jack didn't answer.

After another few moments, Dixon repeated, "Repeat, I am headed to the table."

"Yes," Jack said, sounding unfocused and unsure – in other words, entirely unlike himself. "It's – do that. Go ahead."

"Hang on a second." Dixon kept turning this way and that as he moved through the throngs of gamblers, trying not to let anyone watch him apparently talking to himself for too long. "What aren't you telling me? Do we have a problem?"

**

Jack stood, his back to the city, staring across the restaurant. The patrons and the chandeliers and the music had all fallen silent, become invisible. He could only look across the room at a woman in a black evening gown, cut low at the neck and high on the side. He hadn't expected to see her tonight – or, quite possibly, ever again.

Irina Derevko stared back at him, disguising her shock as poorly as Jack suspected he was disguising his.

From the phone, Dixon's voice repeated, "Watchtower, do we have a problem? Watchtower?"

Jack tried to find his voice, and couldn't.

"Watchtower?"

**

72 HOURS EARLIER

 

Vaughn looks so different, Sydney thought. So – damaged.

Even as she put words to the idea, she knew where she'd used them before: Years ago, they were the only way she'd been able to tell Vaughn what her father looked like, as they sat together in the rain and talked about her mother's betrayal. Nobody's defenses were stronger than her father's, nobody's stoicism as unshakeable – and yet he'd looked broken, and wounded, and old.

Never had Sydney thought she'd see that expression in Vaughn's eyes. Now she wondered if she'd ever see anything else.

"You know, staring is very in for spring," Weiss said, straightening his tie near her desk. "Tres chic. So keep that up."

"Was I that obvious?"

"To the rest of the spies in the room? Uh, yeah. To the Vaughnbot over there? Listen, I think we could set off a fireworks display without him noticing anything."

"I hate this," Sydney whispered. "I hate not knowing what to say or do. Not having any way to make this easier for him."

Weiss patted her shoulder, then pulled back, as if self-conscious. "Okay, I might be slightly out-of-bounds here – like, by twenty miles – but does your dad have any ideas? What with the whole been-there, done-that aspect of the situation?"

Sydney shrugged. "He says the best thing we can do for Vaughn right now is help him do his job."

"So, this might be a good time to mention that the meeting is about to start?"

"I'll leave it to you," she said. Somehow, she had the sense that when she reached out to Vaughn – even in such minor ways – she only made it worse.

**

Jack glanced over at Sydney as she sat next to him in the briefing room. She gave him a smile – something she did much more often, these days, but it never lost the power to surprise and move him.

With a click, Dixon brought up a screen image of a bronze-and-silver globe, one that seemed to be made of an intricate lace of metal wires. "This appears to be the device known in Rambaldi literature as 'The Waning Moon.' Something important – God only knows what – is located in the center of the sphere."

"Let me make a wild, crazy guess here," Weiss offered. "We don't know what it is, and we wouldn't care, if it weren't for the fact that our good buddies the Covenant are after it. Am I right?"

"Gets better than that," Marshall said. To Jack, it looked as though Marshall were positively excited about the complications, as though they were puzzles for him to play with. "The Waning Moon will only open to one specific key – it's not just a locks-and-tumblers situation, either. Some really specific metallurgy is involved too. It's like, maybe, a fashionista, you know? 'No fake for me, only real gold.'" The feminized voice Marshall used for this was less than convincing. "And, uh, the Covenant's already got their hands on that puppy."

"So they're after the Waning Moon right now." Sydney said. "Do we have any leads?"

Dixon sighed. "We know exactly where it is, for once. That's the good news. The bad news is that it's in a casino vault in Las Vegas."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "A casino?"

"A Rambaldi follower who was given the responsibility of bringing the Waning Moon to the Covenant stopped off in Las Vegas on the way to spend a few hours at the Xanadu Casino," Dixon said. "Apparently the man had a history of gambling addiction. Believe it or not, he lost it in a game of five-card stud."

A casino vault. Jack thought about that, began considering everything he knew. A casino vault.

"Wow," Weiss said. "What a loser. Bet his face is red."

Dixon replied, "It's actually rather pale, because they fished his dead body out of the Carson River last week." Weiss made a face, and Marshall slipped a finger between his collar and his neck, as if he needed a little more air.

Vaughn spoke for the first time. "So we get out to Vegas and get it before the Covenant does." It was a simple, ordinary comment – but everyone's attention was instantly focused on him. Too focused. Jack remembered that too well – the way everyone watched you so carefully. Even when they meant well, it only made you remember how badly you wanted to be invisible.

Quickly, Jack said, "Easier said than done. Casino security is the best in the world. There are nuclear reactors kept under less careful guard than the night's winnings at any establishment in Vegas."

"We've broken into casinos before," Sydney protested. "Dixon and I did three – I mean, five years ago. And then Marshall and I got in last year, remember?"

Jack would have objected, but Dixon beat him to it. "We only tried to get into the back rooms, to cut off one or two security functions that would cover those areas. The vaults are a different matter entirely. They have dozens of well-trained guards – some of them former FBI. They have computerized locks, heat-sensitive materials, laser sensors, you name it. And the vaults are all located underground."

"Sounds un-fun." Weiss stared at his screen, as if weighing whether the Waning Moon could possibly be worth it. "Who's going in? Sydney? Syd and Vaughn? Do I go along for the ride this time?"

"Depends on how we strategize this," Dixon replied. "And that means, we need to know what our game theorist thinks."

Everyone turned and looked at Jack.

He considered casino vaults, the general levels of security, the unique interpersonal connections that would be involved in the heist. Certain goals needed to be achieved, and they might be better achieved at once. Of course, several elements were still unclear – he would need far more complete schematics on the Xanadu before he could begin finalizing a plan. But Jack knew one element immediately.

"I'll need eleven people," he said.

"Eleven?" Sydney stared at him, as well she might. Sometimes, Jack felt as though the CIA had some rule against allowing his daughter more than one backup agent per mission. "That's not overkill?"

"Eleven," Jack repeated. "Counting myself."

"You're going with me?"

Jack had to resist a smile. "I wouldn't miss this one."

**

They all trusted Jack.

As Vaughn glanced back over his shoulder, he could see Marshall leaning over Jack's shoulder in the conference room, no doubt pointing out something important in the blueprints of the Xanadu Casino. Dixon had taken it as a given that Jack would plan the operation. And Sydney's face had lit up when she'd realized her father would be on the mission with her.

So there you go, Vaughn thinks. You can get played for a fool, humiliated in front of your coworkers and your country and the woman you love – and someday, if you play your cards just right, they might trust you again. Maybe.

Of course, if he took Jack Bristow for a model, he could also look forward to another two decades of professional second-guessing and total social exclusion, not to mention a love life as dead as that schmuck they pulled out of the Carson River.

And right now, if he had a little girl to go home to (the thought of a daughter that was Lauren's, that had Lauren's blood in her veins, made him shiver), Vaughn imagined he'd probably fuck that up just like Jack too. How were you supposed to take care of a kid when all you wanted to do was get to the bottom of a bottle of Crown Royal, and stay there?

Jack Bristow started over twenty years later. Vaughn thought about spending twenty years feeling like this – then turned on his heel and went to the stairwell. He needed some fresh air, and he needed it now.

A few minutes later, as he breathed in what passed for fresh air in Los Angeles, strolling on the roof, he heard a soft voice say, "You left in a hurry."

He didn't turn to face Sydney. Sometimes Vaughn didn't know how to face her anymore. "Just wanted to get outside, you know?"

"Sure." Sydney didn't sound convinced. She walked to his side; the cars on the street below zipped by as tiny reflections in her mirrored sunglasses. "Sounds like we're all headed to Vegas. Kinda like a field trip in school."

"And your dad's driving the bus." The mental image – Jack Bristow scowling at the wheel of a bus filled with screeching middle-schoolers -- made Vaughn smile for a moment, despite himself.

"I'm glad we're all going. That you're going." Sydney hesitated before adding, "It'll be nice, spending some time together."

Vaughn sighed. "It's not your imagination. I've been avoiding you."

"I didn't think it was my imagination." She folded her arms across her chest, unconsciously defending herself. How was it that Vaughn could read her like a book, and he'd never been able to read Lauren at all? "If you need some space – I understand that."

"You deserve better than that. You deserve better than to have a man in your life shove you aside again, because of what some other woman did to him."

Sydney breathed in sharply. "It's not the same –"

"Except for the part where it is."

"I'm a grown woman this time. And I don't need you to take care of me." She stepped a little closer to him, and he could hear the next words before she spoke them: Let me take care of you. And that was something Vaughn couldn't bear to hear.

"Sydney, I'm not the guy you remember. I'm not the guy I remember." How could he tell her what was wrong – how much was wrong? That he had nightmares about trying to make love to Lauren while she laughed at him? That he was sweeping his apartment for bugs obsessively, four or five or six times a night? That he was second-guessing himself so constantly that he sometimes couldn't decide which intersection to choose for a right turn? Yesterday, he'd had to pull over and think about it for five minutes – not because he didn't know the way, but because any choice seemed impossible to get right. Sydney could never understand that; no matter how hard life hit her, she kept going. She knew her direction, as if she had a compass to guide her every second, every day. That was one of the things he loved about her – but it was one more of things dividing them now. All Vaughn could add was, "I'm not any good to you, not like this."

Quickly, she turned her head from him, shifting on her feet. "I think I should be allowed to make up my own mind."

"I've made up mine."

"And that's it?" Sydney looked upward, and he knew that behind those mirrored lenses, she was blinking her eyes to keep back the tears. "Well, you were right about one thing."

"Even one thing sounds like too many," Vaughn answered. "So what is it?"

"I guess you're going to be just like my father after all."

She stalked back into the building without another word. All Vaughn could do was watch her go.

**

Dixon had thought that it would take Jack Bristow only five hours to come up with the plan to break into the Xanadu Casino. He was wrong.

It took him three.

"I'd like to make one thing clear," Jack said, by way of a beginning. "Though I understand the potential importance of the Waning Moon, I don't think this is the best use of the agency's time and resources. We could – and should – be designing an operation to capture or kill members of the Covenant."

Despite all the countless red marks in Bristow's record, for all the doubts Dixon sometimes had about the man's stability, there was no way Dixon would ever begrudge the man for being a protective father. "I understand that they're a risk to Sydney, and to others as well. But the Covenant wants this device; going after it is going after them."

"It's not the same."

"No." Dixon sighed. "Jack, I've urged a stronger posture. More resources, more people. Right now, I can't get it; the nation has other security priorities."

Jack pressed his lips together in a thin line. "We don't need resources. We only need permission."

"We're not going to get that. Not now."

For a moment, Dixon worried that Jack was going to dig his heels in, make some kind of harebrained demand with God-knew-what kind of strings attached. But then he simply nodded and pushed a hard copy of the plan across the briefing table. "We should call everyone in for a meeting tomorrow," Jack said as Dixon began reading the notes. "Tonight will give us a chance to make a few preliminary calls."

Jack's voice sounded odd as he said that, but Dixon was too distracted to question him. "This is unusual."

"What's that?"

"There's a name I hadn't expected on your list of requested field agents." Dixon raised an eyebrow. "Mine."

"You were a field agent for more than a decade," Jack said. "One of the best. You know how to deal with surprises, and we're going to need as much of the unit as possible to work together smoothly. The only other option is to pull in someone who doesn't ordinarily work with the rest of us, and that's one variable too many."

Dixon knew all of this to be logical and true, but he said, "I took a management job for a reason, Jack."

After a pause, Jack said, "Your children. Of course." His expression became unreadable as he said, "I probably should have done the same thing."

"Can't really imagine you spending all your time behind a desk."

"You say that as though you didn't like it." Jack hesitated, then said, "This mission promises to be fairly low-risk – as our work goes. Your role isn't one of the more hazardous ones. You'd be in the country, with recourse available through the law in a worst-case scenario. And you wouldn't lack for backup."

In the field again. Gun at his side, cloaked in a disguise.

With a jolt, Dixon realized – DAMN, that sounded good.

Grinning, he said, "So, that gives us Sydney, Vaughn, Marshall, Weiss, you – and me. That's only six of your eleven."

"We'll be going outside the agency for the other players."

"Outside the agency?" Dixon's unease only grew as he saw the look on Jack's face.

"Believe me when I say that I am the only person in the world who hates this more than you do," Jack began. "Especially given what we just discussed –"

"Oh, no –"

Jack kept going, ignoring the warning to stop. "The first call we need to make tonight is to Arvin Sloane."

**

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO


	2. Chapter 2

"I'd thought it would be far longer before you and I saw one another again, Jack." Sloane poured himself a glass of the Beaujolais, then held up the bottle. "Would you like a glass? I assure you, it would be far more pleasant than the last occasion you and I drank together."

"Not for me." Jack's mouth bent into something that could almost have been a smile, but his eyes were hard. The streetlamps illuminated his stony face in bars of light as the limousine rushed through the dark Los Angeles streets. "And there's no need to extend this interview past its absolute necessity."

Sloane felt that he and Jack had issues to discuss – already long overdue -- but he knew it would be fruitless to raise them now. With Marcus Dixon sitting beside Jack, glowering and murderous, they could never have any true conversation. So he contended himself with saying, "On the phone, you mentioned the Waning Moon. Are you so sure that I know where it is?"

"Yes. I also know that you don't have the resources to get in and out easily. The Covenant's secretive nature means that only a very few of your operatives have the skills and the clearance for such an assignment, and you'll need more than a few." Jack raised his eyebrows, daring Sloane to contradict him. Sloane had no such plans; when armed with full, accurate information, Jack Bristow could be a dangerous man. "I also know that you have the key that unlocks the Waning Moon. It's a classic no-win scenario, unless we work together."

"We don't have to like it," Dixon added in his low, rumbling voice. "Which is fortunate, or else this wouldn't get done."

Sloane considered this for a few moments, rolling the wine from the back of his tongue to the front, then back again. "You're suggesting that I join the CIA on this mission. That I share the key, and we share the message."

"Exactly." Jack's face gave away nothing as he spoke, but the sudden tension in Dixon's shoulders told Sloane all: The CIA had been unaware that the Waning Moon contained a message. No matter. The release of this particular information could work to Sloane's purposes as well.

"I see the benefits, but I'm unconvinced," Sloane said. "Forgive my reticence. The last time I worked with the CIA, I was nearly executed for crimes I hadn't committed."

"Instead of the ones you had," Jack said. "However, I foresaw your caution. There is room in our entry scenario for two other Covenant agents, each of whom will play a specific role – needless to say, a highly monitored one. But they'll serve as your insurance."

Excellent, Sloane thought. Two agents were more than enough for his purposes. "I accept your terms. I'll be assisted by Julian Sark and Lauren Reed."

Jack's chin rose sharply, as though he'd been struck. "You can find someone else besides – that woman."

"And yet you consider Julian Sark an acceptable working companion?" Sloane smiled over the rim of his wineglass. "How times change."

"You know what Lauren Reed did to Michael Vaughn," Jack said. "And, by extension, to my daughter."

"I know what we've done to each other, Jack," Sloane replied. "And we work together, don't we? Sydney would do well to acquire the same thick skin." He didn't bother discussing Vaughn; he couldn't imagine that Jack's interest in the man's emotional state far outstripped his own, which was negligible. "If I understand your scenario correctly, the Covenant operatives are mine to choose, not yours."

It was Dixon who answered him. "You'll be given full details of the plan tomorrow, via computer transmission, at the same time the CIA team is briefed. You'll accept or decline. No negotiation, no alterations. Do you understand?"

Sloane kept his face impassive as he nodded. "Perfectly."

**

Marshall drummed his fingers on the briefing table, grinning at everyone and no one in particular. He shouldn't be so excited, he told himself – after all, he'd been on missions before. Two of them, which wasn't that many, but still, you couldn't really call him a rookie anymore. Could you?

"What's your definition of rookie?" he blurted out to Jack Bristow, who was setting up next to him.

"Everyone else," Jack replied.

Marshall wasn't really sure if that was a joke or not, but he laughed just in case.

As everyone got settled, Jack stood up and activated the detailed diagram of the Xanadu Casino that Marshall had helped put together last night. He hadn't quite been able to get the color just right – no time. But otherwise, it was photographic in its perfection. Marshall felt a moment's nostalgia for the post-college job interviews he'd had at Industrial Light &amp; Magic; Lucasfilm would've killed for backdrops this good. Of course, they just would've put Jar Jar Binks in them.

"One word of warning," Jack said. "Everything we're now discussing, all the plans we're breaking down – they have been given to Arvin Sloane and two other Covenant operatives. Specifically, Julian Sark and Lauren Reed."

Man, Marshall thought, as he watched Vaughn's face go pale. Can't those guys afford any more agents?

"They're reviewing these plans at the same time we are," Jack continued. "I regret their necessity for this mission, but that's what we have here – necessity."

Weiss protested, "Okay, maybe we need eleven people for this. But I can go right out in the hall and grab a few more."

Jack shook his head. "It's not manpower we need. It's insurance."

"Oh, oh, right," Marshall said, fitting together the puzzle pieces one step ahead of the explanation. "We know the Covenant will try to get the Waning Moon. Better to have them working with us on our plan instead of, you know, trying to screw it up. Plus we can get the key from them this way, and any other way we'd have to go steal that too, and there's only so much stealing you want to do in any given week."

"Exactly," Jack said, though he didn't look as if he entirely agreed with Marshall's explanation. "I realize that working with these individuals is – problematic, for many of us. But it's our best option."

For a few moments, there was an awkward hush; Marshall realized he was expecting Vaughn to say something, but he didn't have any idea what.

It was Sydney who spoke instead. "We have to do what we have to do," she said. "So, give it to us."

**

"What we're looking at is the Xanadu Casino," Sloane said, as though Lauren didn't know that perfectly well already. The computer screen was the only illumination in the dark room he now called his office; she squinted and leaned in closer. "It's famous for several features. The Abora restaurant on the top floor of the 40-story hotel tower serves very fine Kobe beef – it's been written up in Gourmet. The Abyssinian Theatre features one of the last classic showgirl revues of Las Vegas. A nightclub called The Pleasure Dome that takes up the fourth and fifth floors had more of a heyday a few decades ago, but still exists in a certain kind of overstuffed grandeur. But our interests will be focused on the gaming floor on ground level, and on the vaults beneath."

Julian's eyes met hers, glittering with an emotion that might have been contempt for Sloane's travelogue, anticipation of the impending mission or pure, simple lust. He moved between those emotions too quickly for her, too easily – as though they were cards he could shuffle with a sharp's accuracy, always falling into whatever order he chose.

But he was what she had now, and Lauren knew well that she could have ended up with far less.

"When our late colleague decided to stake his life on a game of cards, he simply offered the Waning Moon up as a valuable, the same way some men use their watches or jewelry. Although it is reasonable to assume that the Xanadu's management little understands what it has on its hands, they have identified the Waning Moon as an object of antiquity and worth." Sloane tapped his stylus once, and the computer simulation changed, revealing the vaults in detail. "Which means they've stored it here."

Lauren could see the walls veined with sensors, red and green lines as thick as cobwebs. "That looks complicated."

**

"This vault is as hardwired as any installation we've ever attempted to infiltrate." Jack motioned to the side of the screen, where a few numbers hovered in a catalog. "These numbers are the Xanadu's inventory of their vaults. Of course, most of what they keep down there is cash, which doesn't interest us."

"Speak for yourself," Weiss muttered. Jack didn't react, which was probably a good thing, but Sydney gave him a smile. That made the comment worthwhile, in Weiss' opinion.

Jack continued, "Although all the vaults are kept under high security, there are two of them that are the most guarded, the most secure. Those are the two that concern us. Marshall came up with a decryption program for the inventory, which I was able to use last night. That informed me that the Waning Moon is being kept here –" He tapped a vault near the north side of the casino, where a small yellow panel no doubt stood in for the Rambaldi device, then dragged his stylus all the way to the other side. "—and that several million dollars' worth of colored diamonds are being stored here."

"Colored diamonds?" Weiss glanced around the room and was relieved to see that everyone else looked as confused as he did. "Is this just sort of an interesting Fun Fact about the casino?"

To his astonishment, Jack smiled. "No, Mr. Weiss. We're reviewing their location because we're going to steal them."

**

"I always rather fancied the idea of being a jewel thief," Sark said, folding his arms. "Perhaps in the mold of Cary Grant. But why will I be making my debut in the profession for this?"

Sloane's withered face creased in a smile – one that genuinely looked fond, of either the plan or the planner. Briefly, Sark hoped that he would never be so soft about his sworn enemies. "It's only a diversion. We're going to commit two robberies instead of one. The colored diamonds will be stolen with the understanding that, in the process, certain alarms will be deliberately tripped. If the designated thief – that would be you, Julian – gets away with the diamonds, then they are yours as a token of the CIA's gratitude."

They're paying us to do this, Sark thought. Every time I think their idiocy has reached its nadir, I learn I'm wrong.

"If, on the other hand, you have to dispose of the diamonds as part of your escape, that is essentially irrelevant," Sloane continued. "The point is that you will distract the casino's security resources, and while most of them are diverted, another member of the team will steal the Waning Moon."

**

"Okay, I'm not worried about getting into the safe, once I'm in the vault," Sydney said, looking at the glowing yellow panel that represented her goal. "I am worried about getting into the vault. How am I supposed to deactivate all of those sensors?"

"You aren't," her father answered. "You're going to meet up with a security guard – who will be Agent Vaughn – on his way to transport chips into the vault. They make such transfers on the half-hour, every half-hour. When Vaughn makes his delivery, he will have one additional drum, supposedly containing chips; you'll be hiding inside. You wait there until the security alarms signal that the first robbery is underway; that should give you your chance to act."

Sydney knew exactly where her father had gotten that idea, and when their eyes met, she smiled. For one second, her father's eyes reflected her own happiness – but then they dimmed, and he looked down quickly at the plans again.

She could have kicked herself. He had, of course, gotten the idea from the mission to India they'd undertaken four years ago, when they'd hidden her mother in a barrel meant for grain. Despite the mission's many drawbacks – capture, torture, land mines, just to name a few – Sydney cherished it as one of her few memories of being with her entire family. Well, her entire family except Nadia.

But remembering Mom meant remembering that she'd left them all again, a few months later. And remembering that she'd betrayed them both (and it felt as though it was both of them, not just her father) by having an affair with Sloane.

When her dad brought up a new schematic, Sydney decided to follow his lead and concentrate on the task at hand. Thinking about her mother and Sloane could only be a distraction. And make her want a shower really, really badly.

**

Sloane watched Sark's face shift from curiosity to a kind of imperious disdain. "And has the CIA offered any assistance for my theft of the diamonds? Or is that left to my own ingenuity?"

Such pride, Sloane thought. Were it matched with any less skill, he would have had Sark eliminated long ago. "Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman will create a scenario that should allow you to get into the control room. Circumstances permitting, you may create the illusion that you've overpowered them."

"Illusion?" One of Sark's eyebrows rose.

Remembering an old satellite image of Marcus Dixon with a rifle in his hands, Sloane smiled mirthlessly. "I leave that to your own discretion."

Lauren Reed opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. Had she developed a fondness for those men, during her months of work in the CIA? Sloane could understand that – as long as it did not affect her work. "What about the key to the Waning Moon?"

"We'll have to show it to them at the beginning of the evening and allow Marshall Flinkman to verify its authenticity. At that time, Lauren, you will take possession of the key and remain in the company of Agent Weiss throughout the rest of the operation. Your team will have a series of small tasks to perform, but primarily, your job is to hold the key and remain with him until we're done."

Her wide eyes glittered with understanding. She had these moments – intuitive leaps – when hints of her true promise showed through. "You say 'we' as though you meant us. Just us."

"Perhaps we have to begin playing this game by the CIA's rules, Miss Reed," Sloane replied. "That doesn't mean we have to end that way."

**

Jack paused, studying the faces of those around him before continuing. "It would, of course, be foolhardy to assume that Arvin Sloane will keep his word. That's why we have an operation within the operation. Another member of the team has been chosen for monitoring purposes – someone neither Covenant nor CIA. That member's identity is known only to me. Primarily, this operative's task will be to make sure that nobody deviates from the plan. However, one more function will be performed – the theft from Lauren Reed of the key to the Waning Moon."

"Sounds a little more like it," Weiss said. "But won't she notice?"

"Not if this operative performs correctly – and you do as well, Mr. Weiss." Jack felt more uncertain discussing this than any other aspect of the mission. Not because he doubted the truth of what he was saying, or the strength of his plan – but because it touched on subjects that were, well, delicate. And not at all the kind of thing he preferred to discuss in CIA headquarters. "Marshall will duplicate the key or at least come up with the means of doing so during the next hour."

"More than enough time," Marshall chimed in.

"I don't doubt it. The key will be returned to Ms. Reed before the end of the night, so that if – by some unlikely chance – Sloane keeps his word, we won't be caught in the double-cross."

"And if we don't get the Waning Moon, we'll at least have the key," Sydney said. Jack resisted the urge to smile as he saw his daughter drawing the right conclusions, making the leap ahead. "Which means that if we need to go back in, we can do it without them."

"Exactly," Jack said. He felt an emotion not dissimilar to the one he'd known years ago, when she was in dance recitals and softball games: pride.

"This other operative –" Vaughn began. "You're not going to give us any clues about who this is?"

Jack felt that glimmer of uncertainty again, but stepped down on it, hard. "No, Mr. Vaughn. Although Sloane doesn't care for it – or, I suspect, Mr. Dixon –" Dixon's glower confirmed this. "—it's best for everyone concerned if that information belongs only to me."

**

"I'm rather possessive by nature," Katya said, studying Jack's face as they strolled through the Botanical Gardens. "But honestly. Asking me to help with CIA missions? It feels as though we're rushing things."

"This doesn't relate to – us," Jack said, weighing that last word carefully, but saying it all the same. His black trenchcoat and business suit gave him a formal air, altogether out of place as they strolled past a tree rich in multicolored blooms, past a fountain that splashed while children laughed nearby. "This is business, Katya."

"You talk like a brand-new agent." She breathed in the fresh air, in an effort to still her racing mind and concentrate. "In our business, personal commitment is professional commitment, and you know it. Admit that you trust someone, and it's a little like going to bed with them. Depending on the circumstances, it can be a far more intimate gesture."

The corner of Jack's mouth turned up. "You'd probably make me regret it if I suggested this inference was wishful thinking on your part."

"I probably would," she agreed. "Also, you'll notice that I haven't accepted your offer."

"Leaving me at the altar?"

"And now the metaphors are about marriage! Your ardor has left me quite breathless." Katya tried to keep from smiling, though she suspected she was doing a poor job. "Let's sit for a moment, shall we? I need to think, and I think best either sitting down or running like hell."

Jack laughed at that, just once, and looked surprised to have done so. But he took his place beside her on the bench – sitting closer than any stranger would have, but not as close as the lover he was.

Their one night together had been borne of a thousand emotions – some good, some bad, some too primal to categorize. Katya had been trying to sort through her feelings for her sister's ex-husband since the night they'd met, but once their lovemaking had begun, all her confusion had gone up in flame, burned away by the simple need to be near him. Her hunger for Jack surprised her and, on some levels, frightened her. It was not a part of anyone's plans – it could not serve her, and Katya had long since learned to fear emotions she couldn't use.

Was it like that for Jack? Katya understood that the passion she'd felt that night was something they had shared completely; of that she had no doubts. But she suspected – no, knew – that he was still in love with Irina.

That was his misfortune, but Katya was determined that it should not be hers. Either Jack Bristow would need to find a way to fall for two women, or she would need to make very, very certain that she didn't fall for him.

But Katya had already realized that this would be easier said than done.

A teenaged boy threw a brilliant blue Frisbee through the air; an Alsatian ran across the lawn and leapt for it, its body twisting in the morning sunshine. The boy laughed and clapped for his dog. "So carefree," she murmured. "I can't even remember what that was like."

Jack breathed out, not quite a sigh. "I can remember when Sydney was like that. I wish I could have saved that much for her, at least."

"You did your best." Katya wanted to touch his arm, but resisted the urge. "If I conduct this errand for you, what will I receive in return?"

"My gratitude," Jack replied.

She tilted her head, studying him. "I might ask for something you don't want to give."

"I doubt that." He had not meant it as an entendre, Katya thought, but as soon as he had spoken, their eyes met. The heat of their night together flashed between them, just for a moment.

Jack Bristow's gratitude. Her own weakness. The endgame. The sheer, simple delight of possibly being able to rub Arvin Sloane's nose in the dirt.

Katya said, "I'm in, just as long as --"

"What?"

She decided against setting any real conditions. No need to try and turn Jack's need to her advantage – not today. Not yet. With an impish smile, she joked, "As long as I don't have to blow anything up."

To her surprise, Jack's face was completely straight as he replied, "That's Mr. Sark's job."

**

"Explosives?" Sark pursed his lips, slightly impressed despite himself. "I must say, Bristow doesn't do things small, does he?"

"It's purely a diversionary tactic," Sloane said. For all his own transparent, contrarian fondness for Jack Bristow, he looked displeased to hear Sark praising him. "The Tsunami Casino across the street has a structure known s the Pagoda of Light that's already earmarked for demolition in two weeks. The premises should be deserted. You'll merely be anticipating its deconstruction."

Sark considered making a joke about Derrida, decided against it. He turned a lock of Lauren's hair between his fingers as he said, "This, I presume, is to increase the chaos outside and facilitate our final escape from the facility."

"Naturally. Of course, that chaos will work to our purposes as well as to theirs." Sloane smiled mirthlessly. "We'll need to comply to Bristow's plan as closely as possible until such time as Sydney has emerged from the vault with the Waning Moon."

"But we can't make the escape we have planned without deviating from the plan," Lauren protested, then hesitated. "Unless –"

Sark finished the thought for her. "Unless we bring in an asset of our own."

**

Jack said, "Almost every possible double-cross the Covenant operatives could attempt would involve a fourth party. Therefore, it is highly likely they'll try to bring someone in. At this point, we cannot guess who this player is or what steps in our process would be disrupted. All of you should be on the lookout for that individual throughout the heist; alert me and anyone else you can if you have a suspect. Card imagery should be easy to work into a conversation in the casino, so refer to the Covenant operative as 'the Ace of Diamonds.'"

Vaughn resisted the urge to take notes. He'd heard plans more complicated – granted, not often, but occasionally – and executed them without difficulty; now, he felt as though it was all too complicated to be trusted.

No – that it was too complicated for him to be trusted to handle it.

Why had Dixon allowed him to do this? Even now, Dixon was leaning forward, maybe to suggest that Vaughn do something else – and Vaughn couldn't decide if that would be the final insult or a blessing.

Instead, Dixon said, "You're sure the mayhem from the destruction of the Pagoda of Light will provide sufficient cover for our exit? They're going to be looking for the jewelry thieves, at the very least – which concerns me, since I'm one of them."

"On its own, it might not," Jack admitted. Vaughn did not find this reassuring. "However, if we have VIP passes, we'll be able to commandeer private transportation away. Casino security won't be looking for the thieves in that crowd, and they'll be under strict orders to cause us no trouble."

Marshall said, "Am I forging up some VIP passes, then? Got the ol' laminator heated up and ready to go."

"No need," Jack said. "Several dozen of them will be stored in a locker that a security guard should be able to access easily." Vaughn froze as Jack nodded in his direction. "Normally, it would be difficult for a guard to exit with them, but if you wait until after the theft alarms go off, Mr. Vaughn, you should have no trouble in the confusion."

Confusion is a big part of this plan, Vaughn thought. Just as well – that's about all I have going for me right now. He was grateful that he had nothing more critical to do, and hated himself for the feeling.

Jack turned back to the diagram and pointed to the glass-walled stories that comprised the Pleasure Dome nightclub. "My role in this, besides serving as coordinator, will be to meet the Xanadu's owner, gain his trust and make certain that no changes to the present security arrangements have been made. Also, however unlikely it may be, we must ensure that this man has no connection to Rambaldi's followers. After I do that, I'll set up a central base of operations in the Pleasure Dome. Luckily for us, that club has been closed since a gas-line problem last week. Its location is ideal for our purposes."

"Gas lines?" Weiss frowned. "What's up with that?"

Vaughn could see the disdain in Jack's expression; disdain was the emotion of Jack's that Vaughn was most familiar with. "Apparently the club features some sort of fire-and-ice theme," he said. "I'm not sure it's been redecorated since the 1960s."

Sydney leaned forward, her hair falling across her shoulders. Vaughn imagined brushing it back, then forced himself not to think about that any more. "I've been counting. With Sloane, Lauren, Sark, me, Vaughn, Marshall, Dixon, Weiss and you, plus this mystery operative of yours – that only makes ten people. I thought you said we'd need eleven."

"We do," Jack said. "In order to coordinate a number of functions, we'll need to establish someone as a guest in the Xanadu. This guest should appear to be extremely wealthy, extremely eccentric, extremely temperamental. Someone who will make extraordinary demands, and have them fulfilled."

After a moment, Vaughn said, "Sloane could do that, right?"

"No, he couldn't. Nor could our silent operative." Jack hesitated, then added, "High-roller guests undergo more scrutiny than anyone else in a casino's operations. Not for security reasons – for financial ones. This person has to be the most carefully chosen of us all."

**

Sydney explained, "They want to know if high rollers can really bankroll the bets they're making. And so they run the names and photos through every database – I mean, everything, domestic, international, you name it. Anyone with more than the most minor criminal record will show up on face-recognition software. According to Dad, pretty much the only way to be absolutely sure that the Xanadu won't catch our high-roller as a fake is to find somebody who has no previous identity. In other words – someone whose previous identity was wiped out in the Witness Protection Program."

Will stared at her. "Seriously?"

**

Continued in Chapter Three --


	3. Chapter 3

"Okay, not that I'm not flattered," Will said, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. "But the last time you and I went on a mission, you told me I was over-the-top."

Sydney's cheeks dimpled. "You're in luck. This time, over-the-top is exactly what we're looking for."

"Playing to my strengths, huh?" Will shook his head. It's like a dream, he thought. Except it's not. Sydney's really here. This is really happening.

He leaned back on his sofa (Goodwill, $85) and studied her. Should he mention that he liked the bangs? Better not. She might have had them for months, for all he knew, and Will didn't want to underline how long it had been since they'd been together. "We both know I'm gonna say yes," he said. "No way I'd refuse, not if it means getting a chance to hang out with you again, even for a few days."

"It's good to see you too," she said. This would have been more convincing if her eyes hadn't immediately filled with tears.

"Hey, hey – what's the matter?"

Sydney leaned against his shoulder, suddenly limp, as if the strength had just ebbed from her. "Remember how I told you I was having a bad time? It hasn't gotten a whole lot better."

Will quietly said, "What's the story with Vaughn?"

As he'd expected, this immediately made everything worse. Syd hugged him tightly as her voice became hoarse. "Lauren – she was lying to him, the whole time – it was all just some plot –"

He knew how that went. For a moment, Francie's face lingered in Will's memory, dark eyes and beautiful smile. Her murderer had stolen that face, along with everything else in Francie's life. That feeling, of loss and anger, had never gone away and never would. "Oh, my God. That's – Syd, that's awful."

"Vaughn's just – it's like he's broken, Will. Like Lauren broke something inside him." Sydney wiped her eyes. "We aren't together now, and that's fine. That's probably for the best. But I don't think we'll ever be together again. Even that wouldn't matter if I thought Vaughn would be happy that way. Instead, right now – it seems like he'll never be happy. And I can't stand that, knowing that Lauren took that from him."

The unspoken words – from us – hung in the air between them.

Will stroked her hair and gathered his own thoughts. His crush on Sydney had faded into friendship long ago – but that friendship had flared into passion the last time they were together, and he realized that, down deep, he'd been wondering if that would happen again.

But Will knew that his head was clear, and that his motives were unselfish, when he said, "I'm sorry for Vaughn. I've been there, pretty much, and there aren't many worse places to be. But he's not your responsibility, Syd. Not any more than I was, or your dad way back when."

"I know that," Sydney said. "I just wish I could feel it."

No matter how much time they'd spent apart, Will could still read Sydney – well enough, anyway. He said, "You know what you need?"

"What's that?"

"A few days in Vegas." She smiled, but only politely. He continued, "You know what I need?"

"Nope."

"To get the HELL out of Wisconsin." And that made her laugh.

Will grinned back at her. Mission accomplished.

**

Jack slipped on the glasses he'd used last autumn for his cover as Gilbert Warner. As a younger agent, he would have found it absurd to put on part of a disguise before making a phone call. But Jack had found that, when it came to role-playing, total commitment was always best.

It took seven transfers through various secretaries to get to Andrew Coleridge's office, and another few minutes on hold before the faraway, distracted voice said, via speakerphone, "Hello?"

"Mr. Coleridge." Jack made the cover's voice and demeanor just slightly less formal than his own. "My name is James Benedict, and I represent the Vortex Group. Entertainment investments."

"Ahh, right." Coleridge sounded unimpressed, but curious. "How can I help you?"

"I heard about the problems you've been having at the Pleasure Dome," Jack continued. His fingers clicked across the keyboard, bringing up a picture of Coleridge: handsome, perhaps a few pounds and a couple years past his prime, but younger than Jack himself. Then his attention shifted away from the picture as Sydney came in the room, just back from Wisconsin. Jack raised his eyebrows; she nodded, answering the unspoken question. Then she made loops with her fingers around her eyes and grinned. It took him several moments to realize she was teasing him about the glasses. The whole time, Jack kept talking: "And it made my colleagues wonder if you weren't interested in taking this opportunity to really do something with the place."

Coleridge paused, then picked up the receiver. His voice was far more clear as he said, "We had thought about redecorating, yeah. Not that the Pleasure Dome's not a classic – it is – but you don't want to slip from nostalgia to kitsch, you know?"

"Exactly," Jack said. He had no opinions about kitsch. "Every other element of the Xanadu is considered world-class; the Pleasure Dome should be as well. And we're interested in helping you make that happen."

"We should talk, definitely." The scent of money obviously affected Coleridge the way a whiff of blood did a shark. Sydney walked to Jack's side and put a hand on his shoulder, which was nice. Then she soundlessly kissed his forehead, which was astonishing.

Focus. Jack pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the way Benedict would. "What do you say to dinner, tomorrow night? I'll be in town, and it's been too long since I visited the Abora."

Coleridge paused, but only for a moment. "Hope it's okay if I bring a guest –"

"Certainly," Jack said. The presence of another party would only help cover the true purpose of his questioning. "Shall we say eight o'clock?"

Plans finalized, Jack hung up. "What was that for?" he asked Sydney. He knew he didn't have to say that he was talking about the kiss.

"Will," she said. "The bit about the Witness Protection Program – it's good. It's convincing, even. I can see why Dixon bought it."

Jack considered denying it, then decided there was no point. His daughter was too smart for him.

"It was good to see him again." Sydney smiled, looking for a second like the vibrant young woman she used to be. "Thanks, Dad." Then she walked off to prepare for her trip, sparing Jack the need to find something to say in reply.

Just as well. He needed to be focusing on his immediate target, namely Andrew Coleridge. At this moment, no doubt, Coleridge was running a web search on the Vortex Group – and finding the many sites Marshall had designed and uploaded, the promise of vast money freely spent. By tomorrow evening, Coleridge would be primed.

And, if all was going according to schedule, everything else at the Xanadu was coming together even now.

**

A hardhat. Of all the indignity.

Sark had no objection to disguises, though he did not share what appeared to be the CIA's near-religious belief in their efficacy. Certainly he had managed his career to date without humiliating himself in the way Sydney Bristow did regularly. He knew precisely how far he was willing to go for verisimilitude – and this hardhat represented the absolute limit. It was all the more galling to be costumed as a demolitions worker when nobody had actually come to question him and be informed that he was a demolitions worker. Apparently nobody cared enough about this relic of the Tsunami Casino to object.

The Nevada heat blazed all around him as he scaled the interior of what had been known as the Pagoda of Light but was now a plastic monstrosity, out-of-date and dark among the glittering newer attractions. Perhaps, Sark admitted, it had looked more to advantage at night, with the ground-level spotlights shining through. At the moment, there was only stark, cloudless sunshine filtering through the plastic, fading it from the desired jade to a sickly green.

Annoyed and hot, he pressed a C4 charge on what looked like the pagoda's second floor. Would one more charge be overkill? This structure was rickety enough that they had little concern about destroying it; the greater worry was that it would collapse of its own volition before nightfall.

Then again, Sark never did things by half-measures. With a faint smile, he began climbing up to the pagoda's peak, ready to set the next charge.

Across the highway, he could see the Xanadu, a shimmering mirage in the heat. No doubt many illusions were being created within.

**

"Five, six, seven, eight!"

And KICK and KICK and half-turn, half-turn – arms, arms, sway and pivot –

Sydney was certain she'd felt more self-conscious in her life than she did at this moment – performing a dance routine she'd seen just once while wearing only black tights, high heels and a sports bra – but the precise memory escaped her.

The smile didn't leave her face, and the steps followed a pattern after a while, and the five people watching her – mostly middle-aged men who looked utterly unmoved – didn't matter as much as her performance. When Sydney finished, nobody clapped or praised her, but one of the guys said, "Let her do one with the headdress."

With a certain satisfaction, she thought This gig is mine.

Unfortunately, the headdress was nightmarish – it weighed at least 25 pounds and seemed to shift balance by the second. Then again, that mission during Carnival in Rio had taught her how to do more than just dance the samba for five miles in spiked heels. Sydney blew one of the silvery feathers away from her face, smiled once more and started over. Her smile was much more artificial this time, but otherwise, her moves were the same.

"We can put you on the floor. Thank God you showed up, kid," the casting agent finally said. "We had so many girls call in sick today. Unbelievable! We have alternates, but not that many."

Those "sick" girls had all been persuaded to stay home by various deceits, of course. Sydney forced herself to appear surprised. "Bad luck for them – but good luck for me."

"You got it," one of the men said, with too long a look at her ass. Sydney wondered if she'd have the chance to punch him tonight. Probably not, but she could always hope.

**

"Disneyland, huh?" The head of security looked impressed, as well he should, Vaughn thought. It sounded funny to anyone not in the business, but the security checks at Disneyland were as extensive and high-tech as any others in the world. Then again, he wouldn't put it past Jack Bristow to find the idea amusing anyway: Michael Vaughn on patrol to keep Daisy Duck and Goofy safe from harm. "Four years there?"

"Almost five," Vaughn said, flattening his voice a little, to go with his persona's Midwestern background. "Been looking for a change."

"Well, you found it. Talked to your boss there, just a second ago." The phone call would have been routed to someone else, probably Weiss, and all the computer files Marshall had doctored had already been reviewed. "He says you're top-notch."

"Nice to hear." The praise for his persona felt strangely hollow, even for something fictional.

"Listen – I know it's kind of a rush, but is there any way you can start tonight? Just a few basic things, watching the show, chip transfers, stuff like that. Normally we'd break you in over a couple weeks, but we've had a bunch of guys call in sick today."

Vaughn raised his eyebrows. "You don't say."

**

"Baccarat."

Dixon dealt the hands, smoothly and swiftly. He did the same for Twenty-One, Poker and Gin, wondering who the hell played Gin in a casino. Mostly, he was just glad that his fingers were doing what he wanted them to do.

Once, he never would've had that doubt. He had trusted himself to defuse a bomb in ten seconds, to deactivate a land mine in the dark. But for the past two years, the greatest test of his dexterity had been the odd game of dominoes with Robin and Stephen.

And yet the ability was still there within him, just waiting for the chance. Dixon hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted that chance until Jack Bristow came up with this scheme – and now he had no idea how he could possibly not have known.

"Ten years in Atlantic City?" The pit boss smiled at him – Margo, that was the name. She had a nice face, Dixon thought: a perfect oval, with sexy cat's eyes. Then he wondered when he'd started noticing women's faces again. "I'm surprised you never moved out here before."

Dixon shrugged. "Comes a time in a man's life when he's ready for a little sunshine, you know?"

"Sure do," Margo said. Very, very nice smile. Red hair. He'd never dated a redhead, unless he counted pretending with a wig-clad Sydney on missions, which he did not. "Well, you'll find plenty of that here. Would you be able to take a shift tonight? I know it's soon, but we've had an awful lot of people call in sick today."

Gravely, Dixon said, "I hear there's a bug going around."

**

Will brushed his fingers over the lapels of his brilliant aquamarine shirt, feeling for the tiny microphone there. Nobody was trying to talk to him yet – but was anybody listening? For some reason, the idea of Jack Bristow sitting there, overhearing everything Will was doing without ever cracking a smile, was distinctly unnerving.

Then he remembered Sydney's mission advice: Once you've started, don't think about what could go wrong. Think about what you're going to get right.

No sooner had the limo come to a stop than a valet opened the door, as if unwilling to allow the slightest possibility that Will would have to do anything for himself. In Will's opinion, this was a refreshing attitude. The sunset's orange glow was blinding even through his sunglasses as they helped him step out onto a plush, royal-blue carpet.

"All RIGHT. YEAH. This is what I'm TALKING ABOUT." Will had been practicing the Early Stones accent for a while now, and he felt good about it. "Fuck Monte Carlo, you know what I'm saying? Fuck Albert and his jet-ski parties. Vegas, that 's the REAL thing, and I am HERE!"

He strutted into the lobby, trailed by bellhops with his countless pieces of luggage – God only knew what the CIA had packed in there – and a smiling young blonde that he knew was assigned to handle the European high-roller. "We're so glad you're here!" she called, somehow catching up to him despite the high, spiked heels she wore. "We've got you set up in the best penthouse suite –"

"Penthouse?" Will turned and gaped at her. "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

"Sir?"

Dropping his voice, he leaned forward and whispered, "Heights. Don't like 'em. Can't even fly without a little help from my good friends Xanax and Dom Perignon. That gets around, I swear to God, it's a ten-minute drive to the Montecito –"

"No, no, no – that's all right!" She had freckles across her nose, which she wrinkled conspiratorially. "Our little secret."

More loudly, he said, "Me, I want to be close to the PLEASURE DOME. That place, it's SINATRA, baby. It's Lawford, it's Davis, it's CLASSIC." The handler went pale, and he chucked her on the shoulder. "Yeah, I know it's closed. Of all the fuckin' times, right? But you guys, you and me, we're going to be FRIENDS, and you can give a key to your friends, right?"

She hesitated, considering that. "Let me see what I can arrange. In the meantime, you'd like a room on the sixth floor? That's just above the Pleasure Dome, and, ah, the lowest floor we have rooms on –"

"Fine, fine, fine. Get some nice folks from the sixth floor, huh? Mr. And Mrs. John Q. Public, here for a vacation. You give THEM the penthouse, you hear what I'm sayin'? Show them a GOOD time." Might as well spread the joy around, Will figured.

And, he thought, speaking of joy –

People were clapping and cheering as showgirls began moving through the gaming floor, which was alive with sound and light just a few dozen feet away. One absolutely beautiful woman after another, wearing next to nothing, dripping with sequins and rhinestones and feathers –

Yet none of them could outshine Sydney.

She was near the back, but Will found it impossible to believe that everyone else staring at the display of showgirls wasn't really just looking at her. And it wasn't her body (though that was amazing) or her face (gorgeous) – it was her. Just her.

He asked himself – are you sure there's nothing left but friendship? No, he wasn't sure of that at all.

"Showgirls," he said, allowing a wolfish grin to spread across his face. "I LOVE showgirls."

With the handler hobbling along after him on her heels, Will strode up to Sydney and slid his arm around her shoulders. She blushed – beautifully, naturally – and whispered, "Ohmigosh, mister, I just started here –"

"Won't get you into TROUBLE, sweetie. Unless it's the kind of trouble you LIKE."

Sydney ducked her chin just a little, then said, "Are you maybe from Australia?"

The old joke slipped effortlessly into their conversation, and Will laughed out loud in pure delight. She was both wholly the showgirl she was portraying and wholly herself, Sydney and not Sydney, at the same time. It was astonishing. It was wonderful.

And then, the first thought in Will's head: No wonder Vaughn loves her.

The kick of it jolted him back into his role. Will chucked Sydney under the chin and said, "I'm from all over, sweetie. And you and ME, we'll go ALL OVER. If you want."

"Mister – I've got a show –"

When the handler waved Sydney off with a smile, Will realized she'd handled it perfectly. He tried to follow her lead, shrugging sheepishly. "Can't blame me for TRYING, can you?"

"Of course not," she replied. "And we've got that key card to the Pleasure Dome for you. Will you be requiring staff? A bartender, perhaps?"

"Maybe later," Will said, trying to hide his glee at how easy the first task had been. "I'll let you KNOW. Don't do NOTHING until you hear from ME."

**

Sloane was generally accustomed to a better class of accommodations, but the standard suite at the Xanadu wasn't unpleasant. It wasn't the surroundings he disliked so heartily – it was the sense of being forced to wait for Jack Bristow.

Well. Jack had so rarely possessed control over their partnership in any form – and would do so even less in the future. No need to begrudge him this. Didn't he owe Jack that much? Wasn't giving him some sense of autonomy the least their friendship required?

"Two minutes late," Lauren said. She had been skittish all night, perhaps dreading Michael Vaughn's appearance. But if Sloane knew Jack, Vaughn would be positioned far away from here. "How long before we abort?"

At that, the door thumped once, then again. Lauren darted forward and opened the door.

Jack Bristow's eyes settled on her, with a quality and clarity of hatred Sloane had never expected to see directed at anyone else; strangely, he found he disliked it. The sensation was rather like jealousy, though that was absurd, of course. Standing beside Jack in the hallway were Marshall Flinkman and Agent Weiss, both in ordinary suits.

"You arrived later than we expected," Lauren said.

"You left later than we wanted," Weiss replied. Jack's eyes shifted over to Weiss, but Sloane couldn't tell if he approved or disliked the insult. Oblivious to that reaction, Weiss added, "Let's get this thing done, okay?"

Jack and Sloane walked toward each other, each flanked by their associates, meeting in the center of the hotel room. Outside the window, the multicolored lights of Vegas flickered and pulsed, an erratic heartbeat. "I knew you'd honor our agreement," Sloane said.

Jack's lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don't know any such thing. We're here to see the key."

Sloane held up the small carved-ebony box, then opened it, revealing the key. After a moment's pause, Marshall said, "Oh – right." He ran a scanner above it quickly – not long enough to create the specs for duplication, which Sloane would never have allowed. "That's the real deal, Agent Bristow."

"Lauren Reed will now take the key," Jack said. She tucked it into a small green wallet that hung from a slender strap across her body. "Nobody is to remove the key from that wallet throughout the evening. Ms. Reed has the key for her insurance; Mr. Weiss will watch her for ours."

Leave it to Jack, Sloane thought. To still put his faith in others, after all. "Agreed." His heart did not beat faster; his eyes did not shift to the side. Sloane was long past thinking of such promises as lies.

**

Okay, Weiss thought, Lauren is creeping me out. Just by being there.

Everyone but Sloane had left the hotel room a few minutes ago. Jack was off to get ready for his appointment in the Abora restaurant, and at the moment, Weiss and Lauren were being trailed by Marshall as they moved through the corridor. "So, I'm headed to my own room, to change into my persona – I'm this guy from North Carolina, all with the, the barbecue and, you know, NASCAR, because that's what he'd like by the demographics, though demographics are a very imprecise science –"

"What about OUR disguises?" Lauren snapped, offending Weiss. He chose to ignore the fact that it was exactly the same tone of voice he would've used with Marshall in about five seconds.

Marshall just kept burbling on. "They're out there in the van. You guys, you're gonna be, like, hippie stoners, camping out in the parking lot. That way you can monitor entrances and exits, and you're guaranteed of not getting surrounded. Lauren, you'll have this whole earth-mother thing going on, even got a little patchouli in there if you feel the need to – okay. And Weiss, you're totally set up. You're gonna look really cool like, maybe, Gregg Allman or somebody."

"Gregg Allman?" Weiss' eyes narrowed. "There is a good way and a bad way to look like Gregg Allman."

"This is going to be in a good way," Marshall promised. "You two – ah – you okay?"

"I think I can handle it," Weiss said, finally meeting Lauren's eyes.

"As do I," she replied, her face a perfect porcelain mask.

"Right, then. Hey, if you guys feel the need, or you have a second, take a picture, okay?" Marshall grinned and waved as he set off for his own destination.

Then they were alone, and the urge to strike her gripped Weiss harder than ever. It startled him, in some ways; of course he hated her, for what she'd done to his friends, but why was it like this? Why did it threaten to pull him in two?

"We'll change in the van," Lauren said. "I don't think we can afford privacy."

Weiss snorted. "Trust me, I won't have any trouble not looking."

With an icy glare, Lauren whirled around to stalk out to the parking lot – and ran straight into another woman. "Excuse me –"

"My dear. Whatever is the rush?" The woman was older – European, Weiss thought, though the accent was hard to place. She had hair the color of caramel, fluffed out in a style that would have been ridiculous if it hadn't somehow managed to be glamorous. She wore a sable fur as though the desert's heat couldn't touch her, and enormous round sunglasses that put him in mind of Jackie O. Her lips were creamy with a toffee gloss that made Weiss remember exactly what toffee tasted like, and he didn't give a damn if she was twenty years his senior – this woman was gorgeous. "This man isn't troubling you, is he?"

"Buford?" Lauren smiled at him brightly. "Not at all. We're just in a hurry."

For God's sake. Weiss forced himself to slide his arm around Lauren's shoulders. "Muffy and I were just gonna try our luck at a little roulette, you know?"

"What else is a casino for?" The European woman shrugged elegantly, obviously losing interest in them altogether even before she turned and strolled away.

"Muffy," Lauren muttered.

"One hint: Don't mess with Buford," Weiss replied. "Let's go."

The green wallet still hung around Lauren's body, and Weiss hoped like hell that Jack's Mystery Agent showed up soon.

Then he thought, wait a second --

**

Jack changed into his tuxedo – the one he owned, not a rental. It was slightly worn about the cuffs, in the elbows, but that was good. Nothing said unpretentious wealth like an obviously well-used tuxedo.

Then again, Marshall said the tux was going out of style. Jack studied it in the mirror and wondered why young men would abandon the only universally flattering garment humanity had ever devised. It was only a moment's curiosity; Jack's actual interest in clothing tended to be mission-related and short-lived.

Not out of style yet, he thought as he straightened his bow tie.

Almost eight. He slipped the glasses back on and, now fully garbed as James Benedict, headed up to the Abora. The elevator doors opened on a brilliant view, and Jack stepped forward to take it all in. Beyond the restaurant's windows stretched the city in all its gaudy splendor: the Eiffel Tower in pink, the Great Wall of China in blue, the canals of Venice to his left, the Great Pyramids to his right, all of it spotlighted and aglow in the darkness.

As he walked toward the window, he pulled out his cellphone and tapped the redial key. "Final call. Check in."

One by one, they answered: Sydney sounded harried, Vaughn depressed, Weiss and Lauren already annoyed beyond measure. Two faint clicks told him that Will Tippin wasn't alone and couldn't speak right now; two similar thumps told him that Katya felt no need to talk, and therefore had already successfully stolen the key from Lauren.

Sark was a measure too self-satisfied – in other words, normal. Marshall was babbling on about something, but that was a sign he was fine as well. Sloane didn't get off the damned line fast enough. But by the time Dixon started talking, Jack was sure that everything was going off without a hitch –

And then she walked in.

Irina had never looked more beautiful – not on their wedding day, not on that mission to Bangkok, not on the night they'd met. Her thick, dark hair was pulled up, but loosely, as though it might tumble down at any second. The halter of her black dress bared her long neck and smooth shoulders; its flowing fabric glittered in the Abora's candlelight. The gown fell over the curve of her hips, baring most of one perfect leg. Jack knew he was staring, and he would've bet a lot of money that he wasn't the only one.

Then their eyes met.

Dixon was saying something. Jack couldn't quite respond in English. "Yes. It's – do that. Go ahead."

Irina stepped forward, eyes wide, lips parted. He could hear the clatter of dishes, the laughter and talk of other guests. How was it possible that they hadn't all frozen? How could they do anything but look at her?

From the phone, Dixon's voice kept saying, "Do we have a problem? Watchtower? Watchtower?"

"Call it a kink," Jack replied. "Don't worry. I'm on top of it."

She began moving toward him, slowly and intently. Jack did the same, not having any damn idea what he'd say or do once they were together – he felt as though he were moving under some kind of spell.

But just as they came within a few feet of each other, a man's voice said, "Mr. Benedict?"

Jack turned to see Andrew Coleridge, grinning at him in an ingratiating, car-salesman sort of way. "Mr. Coleridge," he said, being careful to sound relaxed. It was more difficult than it had been on the phone. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you, sir. This is my date for the evening, Ms. Beatrice Lacroix." Coleridge's proprietary tone about Irina would have been maddening if it hadn't been so laughable. "I brought you a little something, Beatrice – you mentioned that you'd liked it when we were in the shop –"

The gaudy bracelet that Coleridge held out was just the sort of thing Irina should've admired while in-character, but Jack could tell she was only thinly masking her displeasure as she held out her wrist. "Why, Andy. You shouldn't have."

"Never met a woman who said no to jewelry," Jack said. "Though you, ma'am – you seem more the type for books, I'd have thought."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "I prefer knives."

Coleridge's smile was uncertain now. "Ah – do you cook?"

"I think she meant that giving someone a weapon indicates a certain level of trust," Jack said. "Or maybe she just likes sharp edges."

Irina's lips flattened into a line. "I cook."

"Oh, good, good." Coleridge looked from Jack to Irina and back again. Jack knew the best thing he could do right now would be to walk away, or at the very least to stop staring at Irina, but that was impossible. "Say – do you two know each other?"

It was a better question than Coleridge could ever have known. Jack said, quietly, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

**

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER FOUR


	4. Chapter 4

"Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Benedict?" Andrew Coleridge spread his arms out over the table, clearly offering not just the drink, but everything in the Xanadu, all at his disposal. This man was very sure of his empire, and completely unaware of what a small part of the world it really was. "What's your pleasure?"

Jack forced himself to look away from Irina's eyes. Normally, he wouldn't drink on a mission unless it was necessary for his cover, but now -- "Whiskey, neat. And thank you."

"I'll have a brandy," Irina said.

She always did that -- took after-dinner drinks before the meal even began. Port while she cooked dinner, turning her lips plum-tinged and sugary-sweet. A glass of Gewurztraminer in the afternoon, with Handel on the stereo and her feet resting in his lap while she read.

"This is Beatrice's first trip to the United States," Coleridge said, gesturing imperiously to the nearest waiter. "She's Belgian."

"Belgian." For some reason, this struck Jack as comic. Then again, what about this situation wasn't? "What brings you to Las Vegas, Ms. Lacroix?" He awaited her answer with trepidation; Jack had never, in all his plans, considered that the Ace of Diamonds could prove to be Irina -- and he still didn't want to believe it.

Because the Ace of Diamonds was working with Sloane.

"I needed some time to get away," she said, letting her head tilt slightly to one side, a gesture he remembered well. It suggested appraisal.

"Not many people would come to Las Vegas for peace and quiet," Jack said. He watched her smile in response, but the humor didn't reach her eyes. "Difficulty at work?"

"Family trouble. I'd prefer not to get into it."

"Of course not," Coleridge said, quickly leaning so that his body edged between Jack and Irina. "Tonight's about having fun, isn't it?"

She'd rather not get into it. Jack could well imagine that she'd rather let the subject lie. Their "family trouble" could comprise anything from Irina's interaction with Sydney during her lost two years, to the daughter she'd borne Sloane -- Jack's temples throbbed at the thought, quickly shoved aside -- or the fact that he'd spent the night with Katya. (He strongly suspected that she knew.) Probably it was a strong mixture of all three, and other secrets besides. By this point, Jack had learned that he could never assume he'd truly discovered it all.

"And you, Mr. Benedict? Are you here to talk to Andy?"

Andy. How cozy. Jack said, "That's one of the reasons I'm here, yes."

Irina was looking past Coleridge; whatever goal she had in mind for his seduction had obviously taken second place to her curiosity. At first, this was mildly gratifying -- then, he realized with a rush of relief, the best alternative he could've hoped for.

"Is that the only reason?" she pressed. "Not that being with Andy isn't a good reason to travel to Las Vegas - or anywhere else."

She wouldn't keep asking him if she already knew the reason. If Irina had been briefed on the heist, she would know the reason. Therefore, she wasn't the Ace of Diamonds. Irina wasn't working with Sloane.

For months, he'd had to push away the terrible mental picture of her with Sloane during their marriage; at least he didn't have to add a more current version. Besides, looking at her tonight -- dark eyes and glistening lips and the hollow of her throat -- was a pleasure Jack didn't intend to share with Sloane. He wanted that to be his alone.

And Coleridge's, of course. But Coleridge was purely a detail, whether the man knew it or not.

"I'm visiting with friends, actually." He emphasized the word friends so slightly that Coleridge would notice nothing, but he saw the recognition in Irina's eyes.

Would she forfeit her plans with Coleridge -- probably regarding the Waning Moon, he realized -- in order to get a chance to see Sydney? To confront Katya? To talk to him?

No, Jack suspected she wouldn't. Nobody he'd ever known could remain focused on her goal more intensely than Irina, for good and for ill.

"And are you in business with your friends, Mr. Benedict?" Coleridge tried, once more, to insert himself into the conversation.

Jack adjusted his glasses. "With far too many of them, Mr. Coleridge."

Through the lenses, he could see one corner of Irina's mouth lift in the smallest possible smile.

**

As Katya strolled down the sixth-floor hallway, she could hear loud music pounding, getting closer all the time. She consciously timed her footsteps to the beat, remembering a long-ago assignment in Milan that had involved a few trips down a fashion catwalk. A jeans-clad family on their way to the elevator stared at her as she strutted past; Katya didn't acknowledge them. Models never do, she thought.

The music was overpowering now, shaking the mirrors on the walls. Most guests would have been forced to turn down their stereos a long time ago -- but the high roller on the sixth floor was no ordinary guest.

Katya pounded on the door once, twice, then again. It was opened by a young man in an alarmingly bright blue shirt, with hair that seemed to stick out in a dozen directions at once. She liked him instantly. "Would you MIND, sir? Some of us have better things to do than listen to your garbage!"

He smiled, easy and slow. "I tell you WHAT, baby. How about I GIVE you something better to do?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You surprise me."

"That's not the ONLY surprise waiting for you."

What accent was he trying to do? Katya couldn't guess, but fortunately, a certain amount of laughter was right for her role. "I have high standards -"

"I LOVE a challenge." He tugged her hand, and she let herself be towed inside. No doubt the family in jeans had an anecdote they would retell for many years.

The young man quickly turned the stereo down, though not off. "Hey," he said, in an altogether different voice and an American accent that sounded far more genuine. "What happens after this?"

"We all go for ice cream." Code phrases exchanged, Katya dropped her routine and her sunglasses. "You have a plan for exchanging this in the lobby?"

"Should be simple, right? Uh, I'm Will, by the way."

Katya stared at him. "Never exchange unnecessary information. You don't know what can be used against you."

"Do I have to be scared of you?" He said it as a joke, but she could see the worry in his eyes. This was a lost lamb, to be sure.

"Not of me," Katya said, which was true enough, at least for tonight. "Just a tip for the future."

Will shook his head. "This is my grand finale in the espionage business. I know my place: help Syd and Jack out, do exactly what I'm told. So -- key?"

"I dropped the weighted copy into her wallet when I stole this," Katya said, dropping the key into Will's outstretched palm. As she shrugged her way out of the stifling sable coat, she added, "The copy will feel the same in the wallet, but it's not very similar in appearance. If Ms. Reed doublechecks, we'll have trouble."

"Oh, man." Will put the key in his pocket very carefully, as though afraid it could burn him. "I'll hurry."

"DON'T hurry," Katya said, already concerned for the young man. Was Jack so certain this was a good idea? No matter -- it wasn't her op, their goal not her goal. This was just about making sure Jack owed her a favor, not about helping him. She didn't do such things, nor would she consider the possibility. "Take as much time as you require, no more and no less."

"Okay. Good tip. Thanks for that." He ran one hand through his wild hair, then gestured around. "Uh, remote's over there, and -- oh, right -- the key card to the Pleasure Dome's here, if Jack comes by before I get back. I ordered up a bunch of champagne from room service, just figured it was in-character --"

Katya smiled at him as she stretched out on the bed. A sweet lost lamb, this one. "Very much so. You've done well."

As she'd hoped, his chin went up, boyish confidence restored. "All right, then. Let's get this high-roller out on the floor."

"Good luck!" she called as he left. After that, there was only the low thump of the stereo and her own thoughts -- pleasant ones, tied up with Jack and champagne and long hours in hotel rooms.

And even if she barely saw Jack tonight, and even if the long hours proved to be dull --

\-- Katya picked up a bottle of Dom Perignon and poured it into one of the waiting flutes --

\-- there could always be champagne.

**

Marshall was annoyed almost past the point of endurance. Nobody had ever said that role-playing was so HARD.

Take this hand, for instance. His talent for card-counting had told him, with mathematical certainty, that the house had 13 points. He had 15 showing. All he had to do was refuse the next card (the Jack of Hearts), and he would win a small fortune in chips.

But he COULDN'T. His character wasn't due to go on a hot streak for another half an hour, at least; until then, he needed several convincingly amateurish losses. He had a role to play -- even if pretending to know nothing about the cards, much less the laws of probability, was irritating in the extreme.

"Hit me," Marshall said, with what he hoped was a persuasive grin.

Dixon solemnly dealt the Jack of Hearts. The people nearby groaned. "You lose, sir."

"Well, shucks all to heck." Was that a good drawl? Maybe that was too much. That was a little Beverly Hillbillies, funny show, featured Irene Ryan and Buddy Ebsen, top stage talents underrated in the public because of their cornpone roles, so there was no need to perpetuate the stereotype, none at all. "I gotta take a little break here."

With a nod, Dixon scooped back the cards, hearts and diamonds vanishing beneath his fingers. A couple people patted Marshall's shoulder or back as he walked off, much the poorer. That's kinda nice of them, really, he thought.

Then a broad hand swatted him hard on the shoulder. "That was HARD, my man. HARD luck for you!"

Marshall grinned broadly at Will Tippin before remembering that he wasn't supposed to know him. He hadn't changed much, except for being Australian, though that part was probably fake. "Oh, well, you know. That's Vegas for you."

"Listen, my friend." Will gestured to a harried blonde woman who appeared to be following him around; after a moment's hesitation, she handed an enormous stack of chips to Marshall. People nearby started to applaud. "THIS is Vegas, okay? You play AGAIN, and you do some DAMAGE to the house this time. You HEAR me?"

"Definitely! Definitely!" Marshall stuck out his hand for a shake; Will took it, and the Rambaldi key was cool against his palm.

Pretending to nearly drop the chips, Marshall fumbled to grab them both, tucking the key against his body as he did so. "Thanks again, buddy! Muchos gracias, amigo!"

"De nada," Will said, strutting across the floor the casino as admiring eyes followed him around.

Marshall thought, briefly, Sydney has the best job in the world. Then he nodded to the people watching him. "Gonna take a little boy's room break, try my luck with the big spender's chips. Yeah. So, here I go."

In the men's room, he stacked the chips atop the toilet tank, then reached into the back pocket of his acid-washed jeans. The device contained within hadn't been easy to create -- coming up with metallurgical-analysis components that themselves contained no metal, THAT was tough. But the gaming room's metal detectors might've caught anything else, and though Marshall could've truthfully said this device wasn't designed to cheat at cards, he'd have had a difficult time explaining what it really was for.

Carefully, he lay the key across the gel surface, watched that surface meld to its form. Beneath, the colors shifted and changed in various ways, exactly attuned to the presence of different metals. Pink for nickel, scarlet for iron, and just a little orangey bronze there -- oh, there it went. When he returned to the CIA labs, a spectrogram would translate the information of color into metals, and an exact copy would be easy as pie.

"Come on, baby," Marshall said, grinning as the colors began to set. "Papa needs a new pair of shoes."

**

In a black van in the parking lot of the Tsunami Casino, half a dozen small screens showed feeds from the Xanadu's security systems. Tapping in had been trickier than Sark anticipated; this access was limited, but it would have to do.

On the cell phone, Sloane said, "Are you quite sure?"

"Tippin and Flinkman certainly met for some purpose on the gaming floor," Sark replied. "But neither of them made any move to leave the building either before or after that meeting. Lauren's van, and by extension the key, are being left severely alone."

Too severely, in Sark's opinion. It made no sense for Bristow's team not to make an attempt for the key. But Sloane was so sure that Jack Bristow was a man of his word. Then again, perhaps Bristow truly was trusting in Sloane's complicity, after a thousand other betrayals; he'd done so before. If this gullibility was the result of friendship, Sark was quite relieved to have skipped the experience.

"Have you found Tippin's room yet?"

"I'm afraid not," Sark said. "When we tapped into the computer earlier, it showed that they'd placed him in one of the penthouse suites. But he has yet to show up on that feed, and I can't test 40 stories, one after the other, without tipping off their security."

"No matter. Continue to monitor the situation as long as you can," Sloane said, sounding altogether too satisfied with himself.

Sark, on the other hand, had a cell phone in his pocket that was already blinking red as a sign that it was ready to set off an explosion at any moment. Ideally, that moment would not come until Sark was back in the Xanadu, and thereby unlikely to be found. Although he was prepared to do more jail time in the future, for any number of acts, Sark had no intention of spending even one second in custody as a suspected member of al Qaeda.

Of course, one wrong move by Bristow's team -- one move on Lauren -- and Sark was ready to blow things up now, frame Bristow's friends later.

He focused once more on the small screen that showed the van; fuzzy dice hung from the mirror, and Lauren was staring at them balefully. Sark laughed, despite himself -- it was so funny, letting her work herself into those frantic states, then releasing all the tension and panic and fear in bed. Like a wind-up toy, really.

**

"Excuse me?" Sydney drew back, hand to her chest. Granted, the whole modesty act would probably work better if she were wearing something besides a sequined bikini, but that's what she had to work with. "I auditioned for a dancing role, and I think this is serious dancing --"

"It is, it is," the blonde woman said, clearly not paying any attention to what Sydney was saying.

"-- and I am not just some -- some man's plaything." She would have tossed her head, if it wouldn't have sent 25 pounds of glitter and feathers sailing across the room. As it was, Sydney just stuck out her chin.

"Nobody is asking you to do anything illegal. Nobody is asking you to do anything you don't want to do. It's just that, this man who talked to you in the lobby -- he's a serious whale, European, definitely a guy we'd like to see become a regular at the Xanadu --"

"That does not mean I'm going to, well, you know --" Sydney cocked her head to one side, letting the silvery feathers cascade past her shoulder. "What's a whale?"

The blonde woman smiled. "I forget you're new. A whale is a man with a lot of money. A whole lot of money."

Sydney hesitated. "How much money?"

"He's already placed one $60,000 bet tonight. Lost it. Didn't blink." Voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the woman continued, "The files we pulled up on the computer say he's worth almost a billion."

"Well." Sydney drew herself upright. "I guess a drink wouldn't hurt."

"I thought you looked like a smart girl."

You thought I looked like a whore, Sydney thought, smiling as she waved goodbye and wandered toward Will. Then again, I'm wearing a sequined bikini.

"Baby. BABY." Will held out his hands; Sydney pretended to be coy as she sidled up to his side. "SO glad you could make it. So very, VERY glad."

His arm slid around her shoulders, and Sydney bit her lip, as if uncertain. The blonde woman came up to them and said, "If I might suggest -- maybe a table in the Abora? We can get you the best view in the house --"

"Nahh. My sweetheart here is going to give me a TOUR, aren't you, baby? Show me how you girls handle things BACKSTAGE." Will waggled his eyebrows, making it clear that he meant "handle things" quite literally. With great difficulty, Sydney resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"Ah, great. Okay." The blonde woman began backing away from them. "So, maybe you two would prefer some private time --"

"AbsoLUTEly," Will confirmed, taking one of the feathers and tickling Sydney's cheek with it. Thank God, she thought, grateful for the excuse to start giggling. "Got your cell, baby. Call you if I need you."

"You kids have a good time." Sydney's would-be pimp wandered off to cater to other whims elsewhere.

"I'm still kinda sweaty from the show," Sydney said, looking up trustingly into Will's eyes as she ran one finger across her chest. "I sure wouldn't mind a chance to freshen up."

"We'll get you CLEAN, sweetie. You lead the WAY." His lecherous grin only worsened after they stepped into a corridor and were alone with the stage lights and drapes. "Damn, Syd. What have you got on?"

Sydney pulled off the headdress, feeling her shoulders tingle with relief. "Take this, will you? If anybody asks about it, say it's a souvenir."

"Excellent. How would I look in one of these things?" Will tried to balance it atop his head as they hurried to their destination. "Holy shit. This is like carrying a whole other person on your skull."

"That's a good look for you," she said. "You think the guys on the construction site would like it?"

"They'd love it. This could make hardhats a thing of the past," Will grinned.

Despite the uncomfortable shoes and the difficult work she was about to have to pull off, Sydney found herself caught up in a rare kind of jubilation -- for the first time in far too long, she realized, this job was FUN again.

And then they turned the corner and saw Vaughn.

Vaughn wasn't having fun. Vaughn looked tired and disheartened and washed-up -- which wouldn't actually be a bad affect for a security guard, but Sydney knew it wasn't an act. He just stood there, next to his cart filled with barrels of chips, waiting as dispassionately as he might for a bus. When his gaze flickered over to Will, whose arm was still wrapped around her, Sydney waited for some reaction. An embarrassed joke, maybe, or jealousy, or even anger. Anything would've been better than the flat, dead gray she saw in his eyes.

"Vaughn. Hey, man." Will set down the feathered headdress and offered his hand for a shake. "It's good to see you."

"Glad you're okay." Vaughn clasped Will's hand, and Sydney found herself remembering North Korea and the confession she'd made there. He'd been so hurt then, so frustrated; she'd seen it in his eyes as they worked on the Jeep, though she had pretended not to see it. She had treasured it, and hated herself for that -- for being glad that he was hurting, for even this awful proof that he cared.

But now, if she'd seen that in Vaughn's eyes, Sydney would have rejoiced, and she would've felt no guilt for doing so. If only she could be sure that Vaughn would ever care that much about anything, ever again --

"So, what are we doing here?" Will said. Sydney was sure he understood the plan, but had spoken to break the awkward silence that had fallen.

"I'm getting in a barrel," Sydney said, slipping out of the rhinestone-crusted high heels she wore. "You're going to get back up to your room without your handler seeing you. Vaughn's gonna get me in a vault."

"That's my job," Vaughn said. His voice was hollow, his smile empty. Sydney realized, to her dismay, that of all of the eleven operatives, Vaughn's role was the least challenging, the most automatic. Vaughn had to have realized this -- and it couldn't have helped the depression he was feeling. Although she understood her father's reasoning, Sydney resolved to have a talk with him about it afterward. Dad, of all people, ought to try trusting Vaughn a little more.

"Okay. Great." Will clapped his hands together. "Syd, be careful down there. Everything's going to be ready for you when you get out."

"I know." Sydney gave Will the smile that she couldn't give Vaughn. "No worries."

With that, she stepped into the barrel -- plastic cool against her stocking-clad feet -- and curled into a ball. The barrel's size made for a tight fit, but with her legs folded up against her chest, she could just manage it. "Lids away," she said.

Will waved as the dark-blue plastic went over her head. Vaughn's face was expressionless as he sealed her in. Darkness swallowed her up, and Sydney took a moment to be very, very glad she wasn't prone to claustrophobia.

With a shift and a bump, the cart started rolling; she heard Will say something that she couldn't quite make out, and then they were gone, moving on.

As they went, Vaughn said nothing. Sydney understood that he couldn't talk to her, but the weight it of settled on her all the same. They were always going to be like this, weren't they? Working together, miles apart.

The memories flooded through her mind: practicing their golf swings at the driving range, joking about his Rangers pen in an old warehouse, a picture frame left in a bag at her feet. They used to find so many ways to connect. And now, when he needed that connection the most, she had nothing to give him.

Voices beyond the barrel made chit-chat; no doubt she was going into the vault now. A few buzzers sounded, some clicks and whirs -- and then the heavy CA-THUNK of a door opening.

She kept her breath shallow, her body utterly still, despite the cramps beginning in her legs. The cart's rolling stopped. Vaughn said nothing, gave no sign, to indicate that he'd left her. Although it was already dark in the barrel -- and beginning to get rather close -- Sydney noticed the darkness growing deeper, suggesting the vault wasn't well-lighted. Another CA-THUNK, and she knew she was alone.

**

He'd run his little errand. Vaughn tried to glean some sense of accomplishment from that, but he couldn't.

Sydney had looked so beautiful and so happy, standing there with Will. There had been a time, not so long ago, that the thought of Sydney and Will had driven Vaughn nuts; now, he found himself wondering if he hadn't done both of them a disservice by coming between them. After all, if Syd had hooked up with Will instead of him, she might be happy now. And nobody else would be dragged down in Lauren's dark undertow. Just him. Just the guy who had it coming.

Next up was his stroll back to the Abyssinian theatre, where he would spend another few minutes before going to the control room where he'd steal the VIP passes. Vaughn mentally calculated where the others were at that point, clicking off the roles: Sloane in his hotel room, the mystery agent God knew where, Will heading back out onto the casino floor with Dixon and Marshall, Jack up in the Abora, and Weiss -

Weiss was in the parking lot. With Lauren.

Michael, Sydney would want you to live your life. To have happiness. If she truly loved you, wouldn't she want that for you?

Will you, Lauren Joy Reed, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

If I said I wasn't shaken, I'd be lying. But I am glad she's alive. For her sake and for yours. How could I feel any other way?

Darling, I love you. I love you so.

The poison of hate swept through his blood, femoral artery to jugular vein to aorta, clotting his strength and lacerating his heart. Vaughn thought of Jack's warehouse with a sick kind of longing, the way he imagined addicts craving heroin. The guns, the disposal unit, the ability to rid the world of her, not to have to breathe air on the same planet where she breathed -

As if propelled by a force external to him, Vaughn veered off-course, leaving the hallway that led back to the Abyssinian, walking toward the glowing letters that said EXIT. Another few steps, and he stood in the parking lot; a couple minutes of searching, and he spotted it, all the way at the far end of the lot: an orange VW van. From this distance, he couldn't make out the figures inside, but he didn't have to. He knew who they were.

Vaughn's hand rested on the butt of his pistol, the cool ridges of the grip comforting against his palm.

He could do it. Weiss wouldn't stop him; he'd argue, and maybe he'd even resist, but in the end, there was no way Weiss would hurt him to protect Lauren. There would be consequences within the CIA - Dixon let a lot of things slide for people he trusted, but Vaughn was pretty sure he didn't fall in that category any longer. Possibly he was already being phased out. Why not go out like this, after having done the one thing in life he still wanted to do?

Do you want children? I've always thought - for a little boy, Christopher is such a nice name, don't you think?

Christopher. I like that.

Black heat throbbed at his temples, behind his eyes. Vaughn's breath quickened as he stepped toward the rows of shining cars. To hell with it. To hell with the robbery, with Jack's plan -

But that plan had left Sydney locked in a vault, relying on every step of the plan to unfold so that she could get out and be safe. Killing one of Sloane's operatives - even her, even Lauren - would disrupt the plan. And then anything could happen to Sydney.

He took his hand off the gun, turned around and went back inside.

 

**

Sydney counted off the moments by her heartbeats, adjusting mentally for her mood, the adrenalin in her bloodstream, the oxygen she had available. When at last she was sure, she pushed up slowly with her hands, lifting the lid carefully from the barrel. Fresh, cool air swept in, and Sydney gulped down a few grateful breaths before standing up.

The sweat on her body chilled, making her shiver; it was a little like anticipation. Soundlessly, she lay the lid atop some other barrels and stepped out. The other robbery would provide her cover to exit this vault in exactly 30 minutes; that was going to be more than enough time for her to get the vault open, if her safecracking skills were still sharp.

They were. She laid her head against the steel, grateful for the old-fashioned locks and tumblers. A computerized system could always be cracked by the right device, which could be sold to anybody; that was why the very most secure safes in casinos were still manual, and therefore accessible by only a very few experts. Probably fewer than 200 people in the world could break into this model unassisted. Sydney wondered where the other 199 were right now.

Click, turn, twist and -- yes. Sydney grabbed the bag in the safe. She'd take the whole bag with her when she left, but all the same, she was determined to see the Rambaldi device that all the fuss was about --

She opened the bag. She stared down at half a dozen colored diamonds, twinkling in the dim light. The diamonds that were supposed to be in the OTHER vault.

Sydney could think only one thing: We are so screwed.

**

Continued in Part 5


	5. Chapter 5

Dad said the Waning Moon would be in this vault. It was not.

Dad said the diamonds would be in the other vault. They were in her hand, winking pale pink and yellow and blue in the safety lighting.

Sydney couldn't call anyone, because she'd had to go into the vault without any electronics. So the rest of the scenario – the fundamentally screwed-up scenario – was going to keep unfolding, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it until after the alarms started going off and she could make her escape from the vault.

Dad, Sydney thought, you are in big, big trouble –

**

"What if I leave you two alone for a while?" Andrew Coleridge slumped in his chair, wine glass emptied one time too many, glancing from Jack to Irina with hangdog eyes. So much, Jack thought, for disguising our connection. Irina always did that – destroyed his capability for artifice, dragged out the secret side of himself for anyone to see. "Business to attend to –"

"Andy, don't be silly," Irina murmured. A few wisps of her dark hair brushed against the skin of her throat as she looked up at Coleridge. "You promised me some attention tonight."

Irina's sexual behavior wasn't his concern, Jack reminded himself. It hadn't been for a long time. Not even during their marriage, apparently.

"Just figured you two might want to talk." Coleridge clearly wanted to be happy that Irina's hand was resting on his arm. But Irina's eyes were on Jack's face – and even now, while he knew he should be doing anything else, Jack was meeting her gaze. She wore an expression he knew well – when she was willing him to know something, to understand a truth unspoken – but damned if he knew what.

"I wouldn't want to interfere with the lady's plans," Jack said. "Wouldn't want to stand in the way of – romance."

"You say that like a dirty word." Irina raised one eyebrow, put a little too much emphasis on the word dirty. "I'm sure you have a special someone you're spending time with these days."

Yes, he realized, she knew about Katya. Yes, she was mad as hell. But – if Jack read her right, and it was just possible that he did – she didn't yet realize that Katya was here in the hotel. Jack weighed the pros and cons, then decided to lay another card on the table. "As a matter of fact, she's waiting right now."

Irina's lips tightened into a line, but she said nothing.

Coleridge stood up, holding his hand out for Jack to shake, preferably on his way out the door. "Listen, you'll e-mail me that information we discussed, right?"

Jack would be e-mailing Andrew Coleridge about the time hell froze over. "Absolutely. Miss Lacroix, it was a pleasure."

"The pleasure was all mine." Irina held out her hand to him. Jack brought it to his mouth and kissed her fingers. Her skin was warm against his lips, and he felt that old, familiar thrill – the same kick to his system he'd known the first night they met, and every night they'd spent together thereafter.

He held her hand one moment too long. Coleridge's eyes narrowed. Jack let go an instant after Irina began pulling away.

"Great meeting you," Coleridge said flatly. "Have fun with that lucky lady of yours, huh?"

"Lucky," Irina repeated. It didn't sound as though she meant it.

**

"Just lucky, I guess!"

Dixon stared at the speaker – Marshall, whom he was not supposed to know and of whom he was now supposed to be very, very suspicious.

In the past twenty minutes, Marshall had accumulated approximately $75,000 worth of chips, not to mention a crowd of admirers and a frowzy, cheap-looking brunette who had draped herself across Marshall's shoulders like a fur stole that had seen better days.

"An extraordinary run of luck, sir," Dixon said.

"About time, huh? After all those bucks I lost earlier tonight?" Marshall was no actor, but his natural personality worked well for this, Dixon thought; both his energy and his nervousness were right for the moment. He looked like a man trying to get away with something – because he couldn't look like anything else.

"Another hand?" Dixon tapped the deck experimentally.

"What do y'all think?" Marshall called out to the group of gamblers huddled around him. They all clapped and cheered, pumping their fists in the air. The tacky brunette hugged him from the back, which made Marshall look panicked for a second or two. "You heard the folks. Shuffle that there deck!"

"Very well." Dixon began looking around for Margo, the pit boss. Should be easy to spot that red hair –

**

"I don't want to listen to the radio any longer." Lauren's temples were throbbing with an incipient headache. This had less to do with the music than with tension, but the music was the part she could do something about.

Eric Weiss rolled his eyes. "Good thing you're completely in charge here. Oh, hey, wait. You're not. Deal with it."

"It's loud. It could attract attention." She turned to glare at him, her frizzy brown wig obscuring her vision until she brushed it out of the way. This job made up for its many downsides with excitement, generally, but if there was anything less exciting than spending hour upon hour listening to mediocre music with Eric Weiss, Lauren didn't know what it was. "You're only using this as some sort of petty revenge, and for something I didn't even do to you. Pathetic, really."

"Shut up." Weiss apparently had no intention of taking the bait; even the pleasure of a good argument would be denied her.

Lauren sighed and leaned back in her seat. Her hand closed around the green sleeve hanging around her neck, and she felt the key's weight in her hand. One finger dipped inside to brush against cold metal.

"Hey," Weiss said. He was staring at her now, his mood having shifted in an instant. Men. "For the record? If you betray my friends, you betray me."

"How very loyal you are. To take it so personally." Her eyes narrowed. When she'd begun her masquerade in Michael's life, she'd studied Weiss carefully; the best friend was a powerful force to contend with. But she'd never gotten the impression that he fully supported their marriage until rather late in the game.

In fact, not until after Sydney Bristow's return from the "dead," which was just when you might have expected a mutual friend of theirs to withdraw that support. Weiss cared about Michael's well-being, but he cared about Sydney's, too.

Quite a lot, actually.

Lauren's smile couldn't be entirely contained as she said, "You really wanted things to work out for me and Michael, didn't you?"

"Back before I knew you were a lying hosebag, sure." Weiss wanted her to get mad – maybe he, too, just needed an argument to kill the time. He'd get the distraction he wanted. Lauren sized him up: twenty-five pounds heavier than he ought to be, more likely to joke than to be serious, a beer drinker at a loss with a wine list.

"I just wanted to say that I appreciated that, more than you knew." Lauren fixed him in her stare. "Your support for my marriage after Sydney returned – given how much you liked her – it was unexpected."

"Yeah. Well. We all bet on the wrong horse sometimes."

"Interesting that you put it that way – placing a bet. After all, if I were wagering on someone else engaging Sydney's affections – and there were several months when I was – I would have wagered on you."

Weiss opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Bulls-eye.

"Of course, it's not as if she'd ever have considered you while Michael was available." Lauren twirled a few strands of the curly brown wig between her fingers. "Michael's rather more her type. Girls like her don't usually go for guys like you, do they?"

"Hey. Syd's my friend. End of story."

"That is the end of the story, I agree. But that's not the way you wanted it to end, is it? And if I'd only been the person you all thought I was – if my marriage to Michael had worked and survived – why, you might have ended up with Sydney after all. No wonder you're angry at me. I was your only chance, and I ruined it for you."

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

Lauren laughed out loud. "Too bad we didn't figure this out earlier. We might have worked together, you and I. Common goals and all that."

"You listen to me." Weiss leaned into her face, his face a mask of anger she'd never imagined on his round, friendly face. "What I wanted or what I didn't want doesn't matter, and it never did. Syd and Vaughn are my friends, and I want them to be happy, okay? That means playing it straight and staying the hell out of the way."

What a bore, after all. Lauren slumped against the far window and began studying her nails, green sleeve around her neck forgotten. "Someday you'll learn, Mr. Weiss – the only things you get in this life are the things you're willing to steal."

**

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Marshall held up his fists as the crowd screamed their approval. "Like stealing candy from a baby! Yessir!"

Dixon frowned forbiddingly as he pushed forward yet another stack of chips. A quick calculation suggested – huh, $100 per red chip, $500 per white, $1000 per blue – whoa, nelly, that was a lot of money, a whole lot, and was this maybe a federal offense? Then again, Marshall thought, they committed a lot of federal offenses in the name of the federal government, and they all seemed to cancel each other out in the end.

"What is THIS?" Will Tippin pushed through the crowd to Marshall's side. "Looks like YOU have had a change of LUCK, my friend!"

"Thanks to you, good buddy!" Marshall pretended to wipe his hands on his jeans, palming the key from his back pocket fairly smoothly, if he did say so himself. He grabbed Will's hand for a shake and pumped it, handing the key off again. "You sure did turn this whole trip around for me, and that's the truth."

"HAPPY to do it, my friend." Will's grin was genuine. "Now, I have a LOVELY lady waiting for me, so you wish ME luck, too, okay?"

"Good luck to you, sir!" Marshall mock-saluted as Will withdrew back into the noise and the crowd. Then he turned back to Dixon – who was now standing next to a red-haired woman who didn't look happy. Dixon didn't either.

Dixon said, "Sir, we're going to have to ask you to step into the back with us."

"What? Did I do something wrong?" Marshall felt butterflies in his stomach, just like he was really breaking the law. Which, in a sense, he was, just not the laws the pit boss thought he was breaking. Or the ones he was going to start breaking with a minute. Man, this field agent stuff got confusing sometimes.

"I'm sure we can clear this up," Dixon said. "If you'll come with us."

"Okey dokey," Marshall said, scooping up his chips.

**

Katya was well into her second glass of champagne when someone knocked on the door. Will, of course, would have a key, which meant that her guest was –

"Jack," she said with a smile, as she opened the door. He was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing a tuxedo – really, Katya thought, men shouldn't be allowed to wear anything else – and glasses that she instantly decided could stay. "Champagne?"

"Thanks, but no." His eyes traveled down her body, taking in her own disguise, and Katya was glad she'd worn the glamorous one first. "I've already had one drink tonight, and that's enough."

She shut the door behind them. "Funny. You look as though you could use another."

"I'd like one. But what I want and what I need are two different things." Jack was still studying her, his appreciation clear. But the low, smoky heat in the room was paired with another kind of energy – something harder and more volatile. Dangerous, perhaps. She found it extremely attractive. "Did we get the key card to the Pleasure Dome?"

"Will has managed his role quite nicely so far." Katya held up the key card, then tucked it into the chest pocket of Jack's tux. "He's lovely, if a little wet behind the ears. Wherever did you find him?"

"He's a friend of Sydney's who got pulled into all of this." Jack stared out the window, down at the Tsunami Casino's Pagoda of Light, still in existence for approximately the next four minutes. "Irina pulled him into this, years ago."

"Irina? Will? Why?"

"I still don't know." When Jack turned back to her, she couldn't see his eyes for the reflection of the Vegas lights in his glasses. "Irina's here."

"Tonight?" Well, that was unexpected.

"She isn't working with Sloane. I'm certain of that."

"Of course she isn't." He might as well have informed her that her sister had not sprouted wings and become an angel. "But what is she doing? Making her own attempt on the Waning Moon?"

"That seems the most likely hypothesis." Jack clasped his hands behind his back. He was quiet for a long time before he said, "You told her about -- us."

"Naturally. We are sisters, after all." Katya didn't get the impression Jack was angry about the revelation; that night, when he'd come to her, she'd thought that Irina eventually being informed was an outcome he not only accepted but desired. "What did she have to say about the subject?"

"Nothing directly. We were never alone. But she's angry."

Interesting. Katya brushed her hand along Jack's shoulder. "Her response to my last communication was primarily about Nadia, of course, so I'll take your word for it. But you needn't caution me, you know."

"You aren't afraid of Irina, then."

"Are you mad? Of course I'm afraid of Irina, under certain circumstances. But I understand her well enough to know that if she actually tells you she's angry, you're in for an argument, not a fight. If she's planning a more lasting vengeance – she'd never begin by warning you. You'd never see it coming. Honestly, Jack, you were married to her for a decade; I should have thought you'd know this."

"We didn't fight much," Jack said simply.

How easily he sums it all up, Katya thought. Jack Bristow was not an eloquent man, but she understood more, in that moment, than she ever had before. Her contentious little sister – it was almost unbelievable that anybody could be with her for ten years and not fight with her much, not unless –

This situation needed careful consideration; it was possible her calculations were ill-founded.

But it was easier to think when she hadn't had two glasses of champagne, and Jack wasn't wearing a tuxedo and those glasses, and when he wasn't leaning down to her, bringing his face to hers. The energy in the room, the dark volatility Katya still couldn't evaluate or control, had changed direction. It was wrapped around her now, binding her closer to Jack.

"Will's coming back soon," Katya said, when his mouth was only a few inches from her own.

Jack only moved nearer, so that his breath was warm against her lips. "But not yet."

**

"Counting cards is a serious violation of casino policy." Dixon was surprised Margo was letting him handle this so far, but so much the better. It allowed him to set the pace. They were all seated in a control room, surrounded by surveillance screens and blinking sensor lights -- just him, Marshall, the pit boss and one security guard who was about ten years too old and 30 pounds too fat to put up much of a fight.

"What do you mean, countin' cards?" Marshall shrugged. "There's always 52 of them, ain't there?"

Dixon glanced at Margo, who rolled her eyes. Such nice eyes she had. He said, "Counting cards refers to using the ability to keep track of cards within a deck and accurately predict which ones have been dealt and will be dealt."

"Oh, heck. I couldn't do that. Keep track of all them numbers and spades and clubs and such-like?" Marshall's face was so open, so utterly innocent, that even Dixon might have believed him, if he'd never seen Marshall decrypt a 10-variable security code within 15 seconds. "Just got on a hot streak, that's all. It was that rich guy's chips. I think they brought the rich with 'em."

"What you describe isn't impossible," Dixon replied. "But it's statistically very improbable."

Marshall folded his hands across his chest. "Well, answer me this. If I knew every hand before it was played, then how come I lost all that money at the beginning of the night?"

Margo leaned forward then, red hair swinging down from her shoulders. "To throw us off your tracks, maybe?"

She was taking charge. That meant they didn't have a very big window of opportunity left. Dixon's eyes darted over to a clock in the corner of a nearby computer screen, and he breathed out in relief. They only had to last another minute or so.

"Off my tracks?" Marshall grimaced.

"It's an obvious move," Margo said. "An amateur's move. Just like winning that much at one table in one sitting." She shook her head and began walking toward the phone, the one she would use to call the police. Dixon looked at the clock again. Come on, he thought. Come on –

"Ma'am, I swear to God, I didn't mean no trouble," Marshall pleaded.

"I'm sure trouble isn't what you wanted," Margo replied. "But it's what you've got."

The door slammed open, and Julian Sark walked in. "Did I hear something about trouble?"

Before the security guard could begin to react, Sark pulled a tranq gun from his jacket and fired. The darts hit the guard in the neck, and Dixon caught the man's arm before he collapsed to the ground.

Sark said, "Step away from the phone, miss. Don't be afraid. This should ultimately prove no more than a minor inconvenience."

Margo's eyes traveled from Sark, to Dixon, to Marshall; the realization that the others in the room were unsurprised was immediate. Dixon sighed. "Sorry about this." The first woman I've been attracted to in years, he thought, and I'm robbing her.

"No offense, but you're a little late," Marshall said, moving to the computer keyboard to start hacking through the security systems. "Maybe in the underworld or whatever you would call it, punctuality doesn't matter, but here in the – well, you know, where I work –"

"Talk less," Dixon said. "Work more."

She backed away from the phone, but her face was hard. "Within five minutes, security will have detected a break in our routines, and they'll take action."

Sark smiled. "Not if we give them something far more dramatic to take action about." He held up his cell phone, then put his thumb on the blinking red panel and pressed down hard.

**

The Pagoda of Light exploded in a blaze of golden fire. Jack broke the kiss with Katya as the windows shuddered in their panes and flame licked up several stories above their heads. How much C4 had Sark used? Perhaps the man's reputation for subtlety was overstated.

"My God," Katya breathed; he still held her in his arms. "That's going to bring out every police officer for a hundred kilometers."

"That's the idea." As the initial burst of the explosion diminished, Jack could see that auxiliary damage appeared minor – so far.

"Won't they suspect terrorism?" Her hand was warm against the back of his neck. "That will bring down security levels we don't want to deal with."

"They'll suspect it for about 10 minutes," Jack replied. "Then someone from CIA headquarters is going to call LVPD and explain that they're certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that it's domestic vandalism, no more. They're already phoning the national networks, to ensure there's no major coverage or widespread panic."

"So you create chaos that will take them hours to undo, while dismissing any sense of panic that would give urgency to their actions. Clever."

"I have some good ideas," Jack said, leaning down to kiss her again.

"That's not one of them." Katya pushed him back, her hands firm against his chest. "I let you use me once, Jack. That doesn't mean I've given you license to do so anytime your masculinity feels bruised."

Her words stung, mostly because Jack felt the truth of them. "Katya – I didn't intend to –"

"To use me, that night? Of course you did, and I encouraged you." Against all expectation, her expression was playful instead of pained. "I wanted it; you needed it. I haven't any regrets – and I mean to keep it that way. Whatever happens between us from now on will be about you and me. Not about you and Irina."

Jack had tried to tell himself that he didn't give a damn about watching Irina walk away, her arm in Coleridge's. He had been trying hard not to think about the chance that she was taking Coleridge to bed later tonight, or even right now –

Well. Maybe not now that there had been an explosion across the street. Seemed like just the sort of thing security would contact the Xanadu's owner about.

Grimly satisfied, Jack allowed himself a smile – then realized Katya was rolling her eyes at him. Could all the Derevko women read his mind? Thank God he'd never met Elena.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This situation is – confusing."

"To say the least." Katya glanced down at the still-blazing remains of the Pagoda of Light. "I don't mind it, though." When he raised one eyebrow, she laughed. "All the plotting and planning and scheming we have to do to stay alive? I rather like introducing an element of pure chaos."

Jack felt relatively certain nobody had ever thought of him that way before. "We shouldn't talk about chaos until this robbery is over."

"Don't worry," she said, patting his arm. The touch, simple and nonsexual, was more comforting than their kisses had been. "To judge from the timing of the explosion, everything's going according to plan."

 

**

Marshall frowned as he ran the calculations again, then again. Was it possible he was off his game? Mr. Sark standing there with two guns – it didn't exactly help his concentration, even if they were only tranq guns, because even tranqs hurt, as he remembered very well from his first mission –

"Is there a problem?" Dixon was still wearing his satiny red dealer's vest; he'd just finished tying the very angry pit boss into her chair. Too bad, Marshall thought. She seemed like a nice lady.

"I just can't confirm the contents of the vault," Marshall admitted. "We cracked the code before, but they have a secondary layer of on-site scrambling – which, by the way, ma'am, is really smart, so tell your IT guys, big ol' thumbs-up from me." The pit boss just scowled.

Sark sighed and tapped his watch. "Did I spend the day setting explosives so we could sit here and bicker? Security are as distracted right now as they will ever be. If we're to begin setting off alarms, we should begin now."

"You got it," Marshall said, ignoring the various firewalls and typing in the command OVERRIDE.

**

Red lights began to flash inside the vault. A siren began to wail. Sydney, already wild with impatience, leaped into action.

Literally: She jumped from the top of the chip barrels to grab one of the lower beams in her hands, then swung her feet up, hard, into the grate for the air vent. This would normally have set off every alarm in the place – but they were already going off.

Bare feet stinging, Sydney managed to wriggle her way into the air vent. The diamonds, in their heavy-clasped pouch, were slung around one wrist; she'd taken them anyway, to create the illusion of two robberies instead of one. Her instinct to preserve the original plan lived on, even though it might be in even more wreckage than she knew --

Stop worrying, she told herself. Just get to Dixon and Marshall. That's your only job. Because they're about to hand the Waning Moon to Sark, and they don't even know it.

**

"Goddamn!" The head of security stared at the various blinking red lights on the panel before him. "Something's going on inside the building."

"Something besides the explosion?" Vaughn tried to look skeptical.

"The south vault – somebody's trying an override."

Vaughn was relieved; Sydney was in the north vault, and that meant she was taking care of everything, just the way she needed to. Just the way she always did. Why had she ever called him her guardian angel? She didn't need one, and he ought to be glad about that. "Could just be somebody panicking."

"Maybe. Maybe not. The camera feeds are still haywire." The head of security frowned, then said, "I can't spare more than a few guys with all that hell across the street, but I'm taking a few guys down there."

"Do it. I've got it here." As soon as the man had left, Vaughn went to the storage locker and jimmied it open; a few security badges were stored within, as well as the odd wristwatch or class ring – lost at poker, Vaughn suspected. Following Jack's instructions, he removed the black-and-gray box that would contain the VIP passes for their escape and clipped it to his belt. His entire mission had taken less than ninety seconds to complete.

Good work, Vaughn thought. With effort and a whole lot of therapy, someday you might be able to handle undercover ops that last a whole hour.

That was it. He had nothing else to contribute, no more to offer. From this point on, Vaughn's only duty was to be sure Marshall and Dixon got out of their vault on time, in order to help them get away after doing the hard stuff.

Nobody else needed him. Sydney didn't need him.

But then again – Vaughn thought about Sydney as she had been when he and Will had helped her into the chip barrel. She had no weapons, no means of radio communication, not even a pair of shoes.

If it really didn't matter what he did, then why not back her up? Even if she didn't need it, just to show her that – whatever else was going on his brain, no matter how little help he could be to her – he still wanted to keep her safe.

I'll just go to the vault, he decided. After I'm done with everything else. Couldn't hurt.

**

Weiss had thought that his crush on Sydney couldn't hurt more than it did back in the beginning – back when she had just returned, and her feelings were so raw, and he spent night after night helping her drink herself into a comfortable oblivion and no further. He'd bandaged his wounds, even halfway convinced himself they weren't real. It had been easy, telling himself that his confusion was just a slightly stronger version of her own, just two lonely people spending too much time together.

And then Lauren fucking Reed came along and ripped the gauze away.

He watched the Pagoda of Light burning across the street; it was already surrounded by half a dozen fire trucks and at least as many police cars. The clouds of smoke billowing out pulsed with red and blue light.

"Julian does good work," Lauren said, smiling at the destruction. "In every way."

Thanks for that mental picture, Weiss thought. "Never guessed you guys would keep up your end of the bargain." Which they had, so far – no sign of any Ace of Diamonds anywhere.

Lauren laughed. "I'm glad we could surprise you."

**

Sloane imagined that the shuddering of the windowpanes behind the glass a few minutes ago had been the explosion of the Pagoda of Light; he hadn't bothered drawing back the curtains to see.

Despite his plans, he had half-hoped that Jack Bristow would return, that they would have an opportunity to talk without others in the room. Jack was not a man without regrets. Surely, given time to reflect and recover, he would come to understand how alike they were – more alike than Jack could ever have known before.

They had been seduced and captivated by the same woman. They had each been betrayed on the most primal level. They each had daughters who were their only true reasons for going on – and those daughters were still far too distant from them. Sloane knew better than to believe that the closeness between Sydney and her father was anything other than temporary; after seeing the depthless anger and hurt in Nadia's eyes, he understood just how deep the rifts between father and child could be.

Only Jack could ever understand. Someday, Sloane hoped, after the Rambaldi revelations were seen in full, Jack would understand. And then they could talk as they had in the old days.

But that time was far in the future, and until then, Sloane had certain necessary tasks to perform.

A rapping at the door made Sloane smile; he opened it and smiled at his guest. "So pleased you could make it."

Olivia Reed wore white and a shark's smile. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Tell me before we go any further – do you need them all alive?"

"Sydney and Jack Bristow are not to be harmed," Sloane replied. "The rest is up to you."

"Good." She set her case on Sloane's bed and flipped it open to reveal an array of weapons. "I like to improvise."

**

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIX


	6. Chapter 6

Marshall keyed in the code – should be the right code, anyway, unless it automatically rolled over every ninety seconds or something, and that was seriously anal-retentive – and the first door to the south vault slid open, thick metal rods uncoupling.

"How many more of these do we have to go through?" Something about the way Mr. Sark was holding those tranquilizer guns suggested just how much he wished they weren't merely tranquilizer guns.

"We'll get there when we get there," Dixon said. He stared down at Sark, and it hit Marshall all over again just what a big guy Dixon really was. "And then we're getting out again in a hurry."

"No arguments," Sark replied. Marshall could feel the guy staring at him as he hacked their way past the second door; Sark had a stare like laser sights, and it made Marshall even more nervous than he already was. Good thing the final encryption was a simple seven-sequence job, or else this might actually get sticky.

His fingers were sweaty, so Marshall wiped his hands on the Dale Earnhardt T-shirt before he finished the last sequence. The bars slid back, slowly allowing light to slide across the interior, revealing the inner vault.

The absolutely, completely, 100% empty inner vault.

Dixon leaned forward, mouth slightly open in shock. "What the hell?"

Marshall couldn't think of anything to say besides the obvious: "No diamonds."

His words were followed by a cold, hard pressure at the back of his neck that Marshall was pretty darned sure was the muzzle of a tranq gun.

Mr. Sark said, "No diamonds – no deal."

**

Will slid his key card into the door of his room, then knocked as he opened it. Sure, it was his room, but he didn't know if that mysterious woman would still be there, and it only seemed polite.

The mysterious woman was there, propped up on the bed and looking considerably less mysterious. She still had on the fluffy caramel-colored wig, but instead of a fur coat and a slinky, cream-colored dress, she was wearing white Nikes, jeans and a navy-blue sweatshirt proclaiming the glories of El Paso, Texas. At his expression, she smiled. "I can't look the same when I meet Miss Reed again, now, can I?"

"If it weren't for the wig," Will said with a shake of his head, "I wouldn't know you."

"And soon I'll take care of that, too." She reached into one of the bags beside the bed and held up a short, wiry-gray bob. "In a few minutes, I'll be geriatric and greedy. I think the term is a 'slot jockey.'"

"See, that's no good." Will grinned and flopped down on the foot of the bed. "You, pretending to be a little old lady? It's not gonna work. Sorry, but it's true."

"You have a talent for flattery, Will. Cultivate that. It can take you far." She patted his cheek. "Champagne? I've had as much as I need to tonight, and it's a shame to let the rest go flat."

He hesitated, then realized – his part in this whole scheme was more or less over, so a glass of bubbly really wouldn't matter. "Sure, hit me."

"You're in fine spirits," she said as she poured, carefully gauging the foam. "I take it that means your mission went well?"

By way of reply, Will pulled out the key to the Waning Moon, flashed it front and back, then handed it to her as she handed him the champagne flute. "Piece of cake, really. Marshall had it totally under control down there – strange but true."

"Marshall? I don't know him." Hey, Will thought, that's surprising. He found himself stepping down hard on the journalistic impulse to ask her more about how she fit into all of this; after spending less than ten minutes in her company, he knew her well enough not to expect a straight answer. She cocked her head and asked, "But you were supposed to work with Sydney tonight too, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Saw her." He knew that his expression had changed, and that she could read him far better than he could read her. "Syd's where she needs to be."

"You're her friend. Just friends?" Her expression was sympathetic, and Will couldn't even feign ignorance.

"How do you do that? The mind-reading thing?"

"It runs in my family. Let me guess: You're just friends because Sydney wanted it that way. You've accepted that but – sometimes, still, you wonder."

"Sometimes, still. Yeah." Will crossed his legs so that he was sitting in front of her, Indian-style. For a moment he remembered telling late-night secrets to Amy – the sister he now got to see in government installations, three carefully appointed times a year – and felt his blues deepen. "I know my place in Syd's story. I'm the sidebar."

"Sidebar?" She folded her hands in her lap, obviously preparing for a long confession.

"It's a newspaper term. I used to write for a newspaper." It felt like something he'd remembered from a past life, one in which he was actually useful for something besides following instructions. "The sidebar is information that's good to have, but it's not part of the main story. So you just kind of put it in its own box, over on the side. Handy phone numbers in case of emergency, that kind of thing. Sydney – she's part of this great, epic love story with Vaughn, you know?"

"I know a little of Mr. Vaughn."

Will didn't pay much attention. "Syd and Vaughn, they're the story. I'm the sidebar." He sighed heavily. "I don't expect you to get it. Somebody like you – you've never been the sidebar."

She found this a lot funnier than he'd expected. "Oh, dear boy. Let me tell you a secret, and remember it well." Her finger crooked under his chin as she said, "If you find yourself in the sidebar, write another story. If you find the right angle, you can always – always – work your way into the lede."

Will grinned. "You've written for a paper."

"And here I am giving away unnecessary information! But you've shared with me, so I'll tell you that I spent a fair bit of my youth at Pravda. So I know how to shape the truth." She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head. "I take it everyone else shares your satisfaction in a job well done?"

"Far as I can tell, this whole plan's going off without a hitch. Jack Bristow – he's the man, you know?"

"Mmm, yes. I do know."

Will took a deep sip of the champagne, which was a far finer brand of stuff than he'd gotten used to now that he worked construction. "I used to think he was this boring guy in a suit -- Sydney's stodgy old dad. Instead, it turns out he's, like, this strange visitor from Planet Bad-Ass."

"You have a gift for words." She laughed and ruffled his hair. "I'm just glad everything's going smoothly."

"Like clockwork."

**

Sark kept the guns trained on the back of Dixon and Marshall's necks as he walked them back toward the control room. "The diamonds are supposed to be in this vault," he said, keeping his voice low and even. Unless his companions were stupid – and he knew they were not – they'd recognize his seriousness without any need for an undignified display of anger. "Where are the diamonds?"

"I don't know, I swear." Marshall was bouncing on the balls of his feet, and his skin glistened with sweat. "The plans we had going in said they'd be here, and I can't get through the on-site scanning. They must've moved them."

"Stealing diamonds was only part of our planned adventure," Sark said, pushing them forward. All around them, security-cameras showed people running to examine the debris of the Pagoda of Light; that job, at least, had been done well, because he had been in charge of it. "A trivial part, perhaps, but one I was looking forward to. And now that I find we are not stealing diamonds after all, more than my enjoyment has been diminished. I find a certain sense of trust is now lacking. If I can't trust you to tell me where the diamonds are, then how can I trust you to share the use of the Waning Moon?"

"You're not exactly in a position to give lectures about being trustworthy," Dixon replied. He turned – slowly, but intently, so that Sark's gun was in his face. The man was utterly unworried; Sark had little use for Marcus Dixon as a general rule, but he did admire nerve. "Listen – the diamonds aren't where we expected. Getting away with them was never more than a remote possibility. We have to do exactly what we were going to do if we had found the diamonds, which is get the hell out of here."

Sark considered that for a moment as he stepped back – just far enough so that his guns would be out of reach of Dixon's long arms. "No. I don't believe we will."

"So what is it you intend to do?" Dixon's expression was changing from blank, professional calm to disdain. "Shoot us? I admit, waking up in a Las Vegas jail isn't something I'd enjoy. But you know as well as I do that one phone call sets us free; that plus a couple of Excedrin for the headache – and the situation's over. I'd think you would have more pride than to stand there and threaten us with an inconvenience."

"Interesting." Sark cocked his head. "And how do you know I won't render you unconscious and then kill you through whatever means I find expedient?"

Marshall's face fell. "Oh, hey, that's kind of a good point."

"You won't." Dixon was still completely in control. "You have a kind of honor, Mr. Sark. It doesn't extend far, and it's not worth much – but it's there. Neither your honor nor your pride would allow you to kill an opponent while he was unconscious on the ground."

"I'm flattered," Sark said. "You're right, of course. Your deaths, when they come, will serve my purpose. Killing you while you lie on the floor in a stupor would be useless."

Marshall raised one of his hands slightly higher than the other. "So, uh, does that mean we're going to leave? Now, maybe?"

"My honor extends to my opponents," Sark replied. "Not to my hostages." Keeping his left hand trained on Marshall and Dixon, he lowered his right hand to the head of the red-haired woman Dixon had tied to the chair. She shivered as the muzzle made contact with her temple.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dixon's mouth twisted into a snarl.

"I think the tranquilizer darts would penetrate the skull easily enough at point-blank range. That might not kill her, but it might. At the very minimum, I'm sure she'd have considerable neurological damage." Now he had Dixon's attention; now there was some fear in the man's dark eyes. About time. "I shall only ask this once more: Where are the diamonds?"

**

A quick walk through the lobby revealed that most of the Xanadu's guests remained cheerfully oblivious to the explosion outside; Jack was satisfied that the City Without Clocks was also the City Without News Bulletins. He overheard a couple of security guards discussing "the alert," but they appeared more interested in a break from routine than alarmed.

Good. One more potential difficulty taken care of. Now he only needed to get to the Pleasure Dome and set up his headquarters for the rest of the night.

He walked to the elevator, but before he could press the arrow, a woman's hand did it for him.

"Going up?" Irina said.

Jack glanced over her shoulder. "Your date appears to have vanished."

"My date appears to have another crisis to deal with." The elevator's doors slid open, and she stepped in at his side. As soon as the doors had closed around them, Irina added, "I take it the explosion was your doing?"

"Indirectly." After only a moment's hesitation, Jack passed over the button that would take him to the Pleasure Dome and instead hit the one for the Abora, on the very top floor. Irina made no other selection. "I assume you're here for the Waning Moon. All I ask is that your plans not endanger Sydney's safety."

"You assume incorrectly." Irina looked out the exterior glass wall of the elevator; as they rose, the city of Las Vegas spread out beneath them, resplendent with color. The fire was on the other side of the building. "The Waning Moon won't tell me anything I don't already know."

Jack wondered what that meant, but knew better than to ask. "Then why are you here?"

"I need to find out a little more about the travel history of the courier who lost the Waning Moon in the first place." She shrugged. "Andrew Coleridge can tell me, and he's pleasant enough company."

"Then by all means enjoy yourself."

Her face darkened. "You should know by now what I will and won't do merely for fun."

Jack's mind instantly supplied an interpretation of her words – You know I didn't go to bed with Sloane willingly, you know it was different than it ever was with you – and he wanted to believe. But how many times had he deceived himself about her? Irina Derevko had never made a fool of him; he'd done that to himself. "I'm more interested in actions than motivations," he said.

"You always were." Arms folded behind her, Irina leaned against the far wall of the elevator. Jack tried not to look at the long, elegant line of her neck, the tapering of her waist, the flash of thigh the skirt's slit revealed. So many of his life's desires were contained in her body, her beauty, her mere presence.

How many times had they discussed a second baby? Just after Sydney's birth, Jack's longing for another child had briefly wavered; it had seemed impossible that he would ever be able to love the next baby as much, that any one heart could contain that much feeling. But he'd soon become willing to learn differently. His wife had wanted to wait, and so they had waited, but at the end – that autumn of 1981 – they'd started talking about the subject again.

He remembered Irina's head – Laura's head – pillowed on his shoulder one night, the words he had whispered to her: In the summer I'll be home more. I can ask for fewer field assignments, especially now that Project Christmas has become a higher priority.

Are you so desperate for a son? she had teased.

No, he'd replied truthfully. Just – more of our family.

She had embraced him more tightly, and asked him about the new status of Project Christmas. And he'd told her.

"Why didn't you tell me about Nadia?" he said.

"You wouldn't have listened."

Jack sighed. "Obviously, I can no longer disprove that."

"Are you telling me you would have been calm and understanding? That you would've forgiven everything?" Irina's words were meant to cut, and they did.

"No. I wouldn't have been 'understanding' about your infidelity with Arvin Sloane. But –" Jack hesitated before saying the rest. "I would have helped you find her."

Her head jerked away from him. "You're lying."

"I helped Sydney find her, didn't I?" He took a deep breath and tried to retain some measure of control. "And I would have preferred finding her for you to finding her for Sloane."

"You should never have led Sloane to Nadia. Never."

"It's unfortunate I didn't have that information earlier."

When she turned back to him, he was startled to see tears in her eyes. "Did you wait for this? The chance to tell me how I lost a daughter again?"

The story Katya had told – of his wife, imprisoned for suspected treason (for love of her CIA husband?), new-delivered and weak, being robbed of her infant daughter – sliced into his heart, drawing fresh blood. Jack remembered trying to lord the shards of his own broken relationship with Sydney over Irina in Los Angeles; at the time, he had thought it was no more than she'd deserved after her abandonment. He hadn't known about the child that had been stolen, hadn't known the cruelty of his own words.

It was too much, to feel her pain as well as his own, to feel it even more strongly.

People always talked about love as though it were something wonderful. Did they not know how terrible it could be? The power it held over you? The way it could make you suffer the agony that should be contained within another person's skin? Damned sentimental fools.

"Irina – no matter what else I have said and done in anger -- I never would have wished for you to lose a child." He couldn't have wished that on anyone he'd ever loved, not since the day he'd first seen baby Sydney in her crib. "Never."

"I know that." Her voice was softer. "I know you."

Did she? Jack hoped so. Then he wondered why he bothered to hope.

**

Sydney pulled the bag of diamonds from her wrist, the better to keep it out of her way while she tried to work on a control panel. It appeared to have a band of metal around the neck – definitely some kind of metal – was it something she could use?

No need, she decided. This panel routed the phone system, and it already had an emergency receiver. No point in dismantling whatever security device was attached to the bag of diamonds unless and until it was necessary, and it wasn't yet.

She was lying flat on her back in the air vent; a strong breeze was blowing through it now, making her shiver and wish that the Abyssinian's showgirls wore something more than silver bikinis. Maybe fur coats and boots, for a nice Eskimo-themed number. Keeping the wig had been a good choice. At least her head was warm.

Fortunately, the Xanadu Casino's super-secure methods didn't seem to apply to their phone systems, which had no more than the normal protocols to get through. Sydney worked as fast as she could, silver-painted nails flashing in the blinking lights.

I have to get in touch with Dad, she thought. He has got to find out just how screwed-up this situation is. Right now, he probably thinks everything's just fine.

**

"Tell me, Jack," Irina said, "how are you enjoying Katya's company these days?"

The elevator doors slid open; every single diner at the Abora, as well as the waiters and a fair number of the kitchen staff, were pressed to the glass of the far window, watching the Pagoda of Light burn. A cook still held a pan out in front of him, its contents bubbling steam into the air unheeded. Jack was tempted to step off the elevator just to avoid answering Irina's question, but he didn't. She raised an eyebrow as the doors shut again and Jack pressed the button for the fourth floor.

After another moment hovering above the city, they began their descent. Jack said, evenly, "Your sister is delightful company. Thanks for asking."

"I'm glad to know it." Irina's fingers brushed at her temple, as if tucking back her hair – though it was all still clipped back in its loose bun. "I hope you'll both be quite happy."

Jack hadn't realize, until that instant, how much he'd counted on Irina being jealous. Actually, he didn't doubt that she was jealous – if she honestly cared so little, she wouldn't have bothered mentioning his liaison at all. But he had wanted to see that jealousy; small and mean though the impulse was, Jack knew too well that he was starved for some proof Irina still cared about him, whatever form it might take. "It's a little early to start talking about happy endings."

To his surprise, she smiled. "My husband the optimist. Most people in our position would've said it was far too late."

"Me. An optimist." Jack found it as funny as she did; when their eyes met this time, the anger was gone.

"I always used to wonder, you know." Irina stepped closer; outside, one of the hourly fireworks displays had begun, scattering colorful fire in the sky around them. "I didn't let myself receive reports about you and Sydney too often. Whenever I did get them, I'd ask myself if this would be the one."

"Which one?"

"The report that told me you had remarried." Jack was genuinely startled by her words; he'd never considered it, even as an abstract possibility. "I told myself that you deserved another love, that Sydney needed a mother. And yet, every time I read that you remained single, I was glad. Tell me, Jack – when was I lying to myself?" Her hand brushed against the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. "When I hoped for the best for you, or when I celebrated that you were still alone?"

Jack lifted his hand to her throat and used two fingers to pull back a loose strand of her hair. She shut her eyes. He said, "I'm too good at lying to myself to tell you."

"So. We can be honest with each other even when we lie to ourselves." Irina opened her eyes again, gazing up at him with her lips slightly parted. The fireworks lit her face in soft flickers of pink and gold. "Is that love?"

The first response Jack thought of to that question involved pushing Irina against the elevator wall and kissing her until she swooned. He didn't know if Irina Derevko could swoon, but he was willing to find out. But that answer, honest though it would be in one sense, was too easy.

Quietly, he said, "It is love. But it isn't trust."

Irina ducked her head, accepting the truth of his words. Each of them stepped away at the same time; Jack leaned heavily against the wall and stared at the fireworks. "Trust matters so much to you," she murmured. "I've learned to do without it."

"Depending on the circumstances, trust can be a more intimate emotion than love." That was a lot like something someone had said to him – who? When? He'd remember eventually, when Irina wasn't so close that she clouded his mind and confused his body.

"I suppose that's what all that talk was about upstairs," Irina said, puzzlng him until she added, "About the knives being symbols of trust. Such gifts you ask for."

All Jack knew was that the greatest chance Irina had ever had to show that she trusted him – by telling him about Nadia, and damning the consequences – was gone and wasted.

His cell phone rang, startling Jack; even Irina turned her head a little too quickly. Jack answered. "Hello?"

"Dad! It's me!" Sydney sounded profoundly unhappy. "The Waning Moon – it wasn't in the vault!"

"Where are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm about halfway to the OTHER vault, the one where the Waning Moon actually is. Tapped into a comm. panel. I took the diamonds that WERE in the vault – I didn't know what else to do – but Dad, Sark's about to get the Waning Moon! If he gets his hands on it, we're NEVER going to see it."

Irina's eyes were studying his face too carefully. Jack said only, "Sounds good. Keep doing what you're doing."

"You can't talk right now." Sydney sighed heavily. She was obviously angry and frustrated – but, most importantly, she was also safe. "Okay. I'm on it."

No sooner had Jack hit END than the phone rang again. "Hello?"

"Mr. Bri – I mean, Watchtower, this is, uh, me, you know who I mean when I say me, and, well, we've kinda hit a snag here. The vault with the diamonds? Turns out it's the vault without the diamonds, or anything else for that matter, and the junior member of Team Evil is wondering where exactly the loot is."

The loot in question, of course, was with his daughter. "I couldn't say."

"That cryptography key I gave you – didn't it work right? Oh, man, oh man." Marshall was clearly working himself up into a froth; Jack thought with no small gratitude of the fact that Dixon was nearby to handle things. "Did you run the decoding sequence again, after that first go-through?"

"No, I didn't. I'm afraid I can't talk at the moment."

"Oh. Okay. I should also mention there's a whole hostage thing going on now."

Jack felt an unpleasant jolt of adrenalin, but reminded himself that capable hands were at the ready. "Let Dixon handle it. That's all you have to do."

This did not appear to reassure Marshall greatly. "If you say so."

The signal went dead. Irina pursed her lips. "Trouble?"

"Not at all." Jack managed to smile. "Everything's right on schedule."

As the elevator chimed and the overhead sign blinked 4, Jack took a deep breath. "I have to go."

"To look after Sydney. I know." Irina's broad hand pressed against the elevator door, holding it open a few moments longer. "Jack – I want to ask you for a promise."

He didn't question whether or not she had the right. "What is it?"

"If you can – if you get the chance – take care of Nadia." The expression in Irina's eyes now was one Jack knew, and loved; he'd seen it gazing down at their baby girl as she nursed her in their bed. "As Sydney's sister."

"As Sydney's sister," he said, then added, "and as your daughter."

She breathed in sharply and turned her face from Jack's. Irina's hand slid away, and the elevator doors shut between them.

**

Dixon tried not to meet Margo's eyes, though she sought his gaze desperately. He could imagine her panic: held captive by a psychotic stranger with a gun, betrayed by a man she'd hired who was nonetheless still her best shot at getting out of this alive.

That assessment of the situation was pretty dead-on accurate, too. Which was why he needed to get himself in high gear.

"Jack Bristow can't tell you where the diamonds are, or he won't tell you?" Mr. Sark was glaring down at Marshall, without ever diminishing the pressure of the tranq gun's muzzle against Margo's head. "I should inform you that this distinction may prove to be critical."

Swallowing hard, Marshall stammered out, "He, ah, he couldn't talk, exactly, not that second, but the strong impression I got, and I think I have a pretty good ability to, uh, read people, not psychic or anything, but – I, I, I think he was telling me that he couldn't tell me. That he didn't know. That's my hunch. Deduction! Call it a deduction. Hunch is so, uh, flimsy. This is a deduction."

Sark's only reply was a scowl.

Dixon breathed in, evenly, steadily. Time seemed to slow down, showing him the room in a different way than it had before. The sense-memory of three hundred field missions was coming back to him, as powerful as it had ever been; it could direct him now.

Margo's chair was on rollers – a fact she either hadn't realized or was too terrified to take advantage of. She was wearing spiked heels in shiny patent leather. The security screens around them were all still working, all still connected to various alarms; of course, Marshall had shut the sirens off a while ago, so they could work in peace. Within another few minutes, the distraction of the Pagoda of Light explosion would no longer completely forestall regular security patrols; they could expect company before too long.

All dominoes, just waiting to be set up in a row and knocked down. Dixon remembered Robin and Stephen giggling as he set up the Ss and Zs on the dining room table. The kids would never believe what their old man was setting up now.

"I can't allow you to hurt this woman," Dixon said.

"Interesting," Sark said. "Not how I would've phrased it. I should've said that you couldn't stop me from hurting this woman."

Dixon kept his face blank. "I think I can – by telling you the truth." Then, quickly: "Marshall, DON'T argue with me on this. I'm pulling rank. We're deviating from the plan for the greater good."

After a moment's hesitation, Marshall nodded quickly, then made a tiny key-lock gesture in front of his lips.

Sark was still suspicious; the man was no fool. But his fundamental distrust had been played to, and that might buy them the time they needed. "You've known where the diamonds were all along."

"Yes." Dixon nodded, as though the gesture cost him dearly. "They're in the same vault with the Waning Moon."

"Meaning Sydney Bristow has them both. Marvelous." Sark edged forward, and though the gun was still pointed at Margo, its muzzle was no longer flush with her skin. "And when did this part in the scheme –"

Dixon brought up his right fist at the same time he kicked out with his left foot. The kick smashed into the bottom of Margo's chair, sending her toppling backwards; the crash would hurt, but not as much as the gun. The fist slammed into Sark's elbow, sending the tranq gun upward.

At that moment, Sark had two choices: regaining control over the gun in his right hand or shooting Marshall with the gun in his left. If he chose the left, Dixon knew, they were screwed. No version of any escape plan worked with an unconscious Marshall.

But Sark was a man who liked control. And – as Dixon had gambled – he tried to regain control over the gun in his right hand. That gave Dixon the opening he needed to elbow him in the gut and shove him savagely to one side. Then he grabbed the nearest weapon – one of Margo's spiked heels, now pointed skyward – and slammed the stiletto into Sark's face. This won him a muffled curse and Sark's temporary loss of balance.

"Marshall, MOVE!" Dixon didn't stop to see if Marshall was moving. Instead he grabbed the arm of Margo's chair and started running. She was screaming bloody murder now, and Dixon didn't doubt she was having an uncomfortable ride – but the point was that her chair was rolling, and they were getting the hell out of there.

"There's an outer lock!" Marshall gasped as he followed behind them into the hallway. "An outer lock – we can keep Sark in there for a few minutes –"

Tranq darts thudded into the wall behind Dixon. "Get us there and do it!"

The second they slid through the next door, Marshall slammed it shut, then tapped in a multi-digit code. A barred metal door slammed down over the whole wall, and Dixon swore. "What the hell?"

"It's to catch thieves, hold 'em in place," Marshall explained. "Pretty handy, huh?"

"We have to go," Dixon said, righting Margo's chair and pushing her before them as they ran down the hall. "I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am. Where can I put you so that security will find you quickly?"

She took a long, shuddering breath, then said, "Outside. A fire exit, maybe."

"Done any second now," he promised.

Margo's eyes were starry with shock. Shock and, well, maybe something just a little more inviting. "You saved me," she breathed. "Who ARE you?"

Danger. Excitement. Adventure. Why had he ever given this up?

Gravely, Dixon replied, "I'm just a man doing his job."

**

"What the --?" Weiss leaned forward, staring at the side of the building.

Lauren froze. She forced herself to sound casual as she said, "What is it?"

He pointed. A woman was rolling across the parking lot in an office chair, apparently tied to it, shrieking as her red hair streamed out behind her. One of her shoes were missing. "Does that seem right to you?" Weiss asked.

Not part of the plan. "I suggest we ignore it."

"Ignore it? She's tied to a chair!" He straightened his ridiculous wig and added, "Where you go, I go. So move it."

Lauren rolled her eyes and hopped out of the van for the Great Chair Rescue.

**

Shit, shit, SHIT.

Sark's face hurt, and no doubt he was wearing shoeprints. The indignity bothered him less than his present captivity; if this was an automatic security function, and he suspected it was, the metal bars would now cover every exit from this hallway.

Which meant that, unless some genius came along with reckless disregard for personal safety but a sincere commitment to saving his ass, Sark was screwed. Very few such individuals existed, and he knew it. He thought only, God damn the CIA.

Then the metal bars slid upward and away.

"Honestly," Olivia Reed said. "Do you always need me to get you out of trouble?"

"You have me confused with your daughter," Sark said. He hoped she wouldn't take it the wrong way; after all, he might be entangled with Olivia for quite some time.

She brushed her cornsilk hair away from her face; she wore pure white, stretchy fabrics that clung to her body and inspired thoughts that, if things worked out with Lauren, might eventually be considered incestuous. "Where's the Waning Moon? And the diamonds?"

"Not here." Sark doublechecked the tranq gun, then sighed in relief as Olivia handed him the real thing, a Glock, with metal weight that was reassuring in his hand. "I can find them. I need you to stop Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman from getting away. Feel free to kill them."

Olivia smiled. "Done."

**

Sydney only just managed to keep herself from shouting out when the metal grid came sliding up from the level below, closing her off from the air vent she'd just crawled through. She instantly made two deductions: This was part of a security system, one that somebody had just deactivated after its initial activation.

Something went wrong here, she realized. And somebody's put it right – or, at least, stopped it.

Either way, she needed to investigate.

When a few seconds of listening revealed no sound, Sydney pried back a ceiling tile and dropped down; her bare feet made a soft smack on the floor, but otherwise, there was no sound. The control room looked more or less as she would have imagined it: slightly disarranged, maybe missing a chair (?), complete with unconscious security guard on the floor.

Shivering – it was warmer here than in the air vent, but still chilly – Sydney tiptoed toward the vault. The empty vault. She swore under her breath; dammit, they'd gotten in. The Waning Moon was Sark's now. The plan was blown.

Sydney breathed in once, then again, steadied her thoughts. They'd had a problem. But there was no way Sark had gotten out of the Xanadu yet; that meant she still had time to set this right. First priority: Try again to contact her father and hope he could talk now, maybe that he'd had a chance to find out more about what had gone wrong. Second priority: Put on a security uniform or something, because the silver bikini was not cutting it any longer. Third priority: Find and stop Sark.

Thus calmed, she turned around – to see Sark standing in the doorway, pointing a Glock straight at her chest.

"Ahh, Sydney," Sark said. "How I've missed you."

"The feeling's not mutual."

"We have two important subjects to discuss." Sark stepped closer to her, his gun never wavering. The side of his face looked like he'd been punched, or maybe kicked, but his eyes were clear. "First of all, I'd like to know the whereabouts of the diamonds."

Diamonds? He actually cared about the diamonds? Sydney didn't let her surprise show. But worse was her dismay when he followed that by saying, "Second of all, I need you to lead me to the Waning Moon. Or else I'm afraid our acquaintance –"

He cocked the gun's trigger with an audible click.

"—will come to a premature end."

**

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SEVEN


	7. Chapter 7

Every once in a while, Sark decided he no longer had a crush on Sydney Bristow. The resolution never lasted all that long, but never had it burned in such a spectacular conflagration as it did at this moment.

She stood in front of him, garbed only in a dark, flowing wig and the smallest imaginable scraps of silver fabric, directly in the sights of his gun. And yet her eyes held no fear, no panic, nothing but pure hatred. God, what a woman.

"You want the diamonds?" Sydney held up one arm, and for the first time Sark realized that a gray pouch dangled from her wrist. "Never thought you were that obsessed with money."

"Money is a means to an end."

Sydney sighed. "And diamonds are a means to money. Fine, then. I wouldn't want to deny the needy. If you've stooped to committing armed robbery, I guess you're hard up."

This was true, Sark thought as he stole another glance at the bikini bottom, albeit not in the sense she meant. "Take the diamonds from the bag and show them to me." She did so, and her palm glittered with pink, blue and yellow lights. For a second, Sark felt a surge of longing for them – not for their value, but for their beauty. It was an aesthetic impulse, no more. "Return them to the bag, then slowly slide the bag along this counter toward me."

As she followed his instructions, Sydney said, "Just making a wild guess here, but if you're holding a gun on me, I take it that means the Covenant is double-crossing our plan across the board."

"I'm not the one who deviated from the plan, darling." The gray sack of diamonds thudded satisfyingly into his hand, and Sark quickly tucked it into the pocket of his coat. "The second half of my question remains unanswered."

"I don't have the Waning Moon."

"But you know where it is."

Sydney frowned. "No, I don't. I'm telling you the truth. I thought it was in here – switched with the diamonds. That's why I came here in the first place."

Everything about her statement made logical sense: Why would Sydney put herself in danger to come to a vault she knew to be empty? Certainly it went against everything Sark knew of Jack Bristow, to believe that the man would endanger his daughter's life for no purpose beyond scoring points off Arvin Sloane.

But Sark knew that, if he were in Sydney's place, he wouldn't have put herself in danger for nothing. There was more to the story, undoubtedly – and that might be what led him to the Waning Moon.

He'd always wanted to work with Sydney someday. He'd never really wanted to kill her. But, down deep, he'd always known which of those outcomes was more likely.

**

The red-haired lady stopped rolling – but not screaming – when the back of her chair hit a Ford F150. Weiss wanted to run to her as fast as he could, but he couldn't let Lauren leave his side, and damn, that girl was slow. "Come on!" he urged.

"YOU try running in Birkenstocks," she huffed, and Weiss thought that maybe, just this once, the girl had a point.

By the time they reached the poor woman, she was already trying to use the truck's bumper to pry the rope away from her arm. "Oh, God. You've got to get me loose," she said.

"Dude, this sucks." Weiss was careful to keep it in character. He knelt by the woman's side, noticing again that she had only one of her shoes. "Were you, like, kidnapped or something?"

"I don't know!" The red-haired woman looked more confused than scared, at least now that she wasn't flying across the asphalt at 20 miles per hour. "At first I thought it was a robbery – the new dealer I hired today, and this redneck who'd been counting cards, they broke into the vault along with this English guy I hadn't seen before –"

Oh, shit, Weiss thought. NO part of this plan involved throwing women out in the parking lot, particularly not on wheels.

"But then the English guy got mad about something, and then it was like he was holding the others hostage, and then the dealer – the handsome one – he saved me –"

Weiss looked up. Lauren looked down. Their eyes met.

He lunged toward her too late; the blow slammed into the back of his skull so hard he could smell blood. The woman was screaming again, and Weiss didn't know why his face felt so cold and hard.

Oh, wait. It was against the pavement. That would explain it.

"Nice working with you," Lauren whispered, too near his ear. Weiss managed to open one eye and see her leering above him. "But, you know, all good things – AAGHH!"

A spiked heel smashed into Lauren's face, sending her sprawling backward as the red-haired woman yelled, "I have had ENOUGH of this for one day!"

Weiss would've cheered, if he'd thought he could move without throwing up.

Lauren didn't come back swinging. She didn't come back at all. He could see her – at least her sandaled feet – as she scrambled upright and began hurrying away. After a couple seconds, he heard another woman, farther away, protesting in Spanish that something was wrong, and wasn't she hurt? Lauren's only response to this kindness was to run.

"What the hell is going on here?" said the woman in the chair as she tried to roll a little closer to Weiss. "Oh, thank God, this lady's coming to help – I wish I spoke Spanish –"

White Nikes were coming closer to Weiss' face; the next words he heard were in accented English: "I'm terribly sorry about this. What you did was quite brave, and I'm sure you've been through a lot, but I must inconvenience you once more." One heavy thud, and then the red-haired woman's legs went slack.

The woman from the casino, Weiss realized. Jack's mystery agent.

"I'll put her in the van and call security after we're gone," said the voice from above. "How are you?"

Weiss weighed that question very carefully. "I think maybe I can sit up."

"Not promising. But give it a try."

He did, and though the world swirled terribly, twisting his stomach in knots, Weiss was able to keep himself together. Jack's agent was wearing a gray wig and a sweatshirt, and when she knelt by his side, her expression was kind. "I realized we had trouble when you weren't in the van," she said. "Thank God I ran into Miss Reed in time to make the switch."

At least one disaster was averted, then. But Weiss was pretty sure others were brewing. "Sark's double-crossed Dixon and Marshall. I don't know what they're doing –" he sucked in a breath, trying to steady his head. " – but I'm guessing it's seriously bad." Sloane – no big shock – had broken his word. The shock was that whatever he'd done was something Jack Bristow hadn't been prepared for. Weiss hadn't quite thought that was possible. And what it meant was that all of them – including Syd and Vaughn – were in one hell of a lot of trouble. "We gotta get back in there."

"No," the mystery agent said. "I'll get back in there and let Jack know what's going on. But you're out of this. I'm putting you in a cab to the airport."

Weiss turned his head toward her to object, but that made the whole world swim and blur in front of his eyes again. Sydney and Vaughn were just going to have to take care of themselves. Hollowly, he repeated, "Yeah. I'm out of this."

**

Dixon knew, on one level, that they were screwed. No telling where the diamonds were, and if they were wrong about the diamonds, they could be wrong about any number of things – including the location of the Waning Moon.

On another level, he knew that he was having more fun than he'd had since he found out SD-6 wasn't the CIA. This feeling – the thump of his heartbeat, the cool-hot contrasts of adrenalin – this was too good to let go, ever again.

Next to him in the service corridor, Marshall was bouncing on his heels. "You seem nervous," Dixon said. "You can establish a secure line through the security station, can't you?"

"Ain't nothin' but a thang," Marshall said, which Dixon vaguely suspected might be jive for "no problem." "Just still all keyed up, you know? But I'm on it."

How could he re-enter field work? Somebody else could be assigned to head up their division; sometimes, Dixon thought the higher-ups might even approve Jack Bristow reclaiming the position, if for no other reason than they might know where the man was a slightly higher fraction of the time. But what reason could Dixon give for his own change? Psych examined all reassignment requests, and he strongly suspected Judy Barnett would object if his read: Wanted more kicks.

But Robin and Stephen – didn't he need this job to keep them safe? That consideration might have weighed more heavily upon him before the kidnapping two months before. Now, it felt like he would do better to keep a gun in his hand a little more often.

"Almost there," Marshall said, sticking the tip of his tongue from his mouth as he concentrated on a trick of the wiring. Then he grinned and started coding in numbers, the tones echoing amid the clank and thud of the pipes in the corridor. Imitating an automated operator's voice, Marshall intoned, "THENK you for using AT and –"

A flash of white, a crack that sounded like bone, and Marshall tumbled to the floor, unconscious. Dropping from above was a woman that Dixon recognized from security briefings as Olivia Reed.

The Ace of Diamonds was now in play.

"I don't think I killed him," Olivia said, stepping over Marshall's inert body. "I'd prefer to do this without killing you."

"Getting softhearted?" Dixon raised an eyebrow. Playing it cool was the best way he could think of to distract her attention from the fact that he was unarmed. "That won't take you far in the Covenant."

"The Covenant takes me where I want to go," she said. Her gun – shining silver, and enviable in even less dire circumstances – was at her side, not pointed at him yet. "But I'm always the one behind the wheel."

"I don't doubt it." Movement behind Olivia made Dixon's heart jump, before he realized it was just the service-phone receiver, dangling from its cord where Marshall had dropped it. Then he noticed – there was no dial tone. No ringing.

The call got through. Jack Bristow was listening to every word they were saying.

"So tell me," Dixon said, hoping against hope that she'd take the bait. "Why the double-cross? Why not share the message? What the hell does Rambaldi have to say?"

Olivia shrugged; her heavy golden hair fell forward from her shoulders. "Nobody knows. If we knew what the message was, there wouldn't be much point in obtaining the Waning Moon in the first place, would there?"

Dixon hid his disappointment; Olivia was talking, but only because she wasn't saying anything important, and she knew it.

"So this double-cross – it's just for its own sake." Dixon shook his head. "Just to keep us out of the game."

"Has there ever been any other reason? You're a grown man. I'd think you would have realized this by now."

"Maybe I keep wishing for a better class of enemy."

Her face changed; to Dixon's astonishment, he thought she was holding back a smile. "Then maybe we have something in common."

Their eyes met. A few things occurred to Dixon at once:

She had a really beautiful face.

He not only was noticing women's faces again, he was noticing very inconvenient women's faces at very inconvenient times.

And he'd been out of the field too long if he'd forgotten that adrenalin sometimes did strange things to the male mind.

"Did you kill your husband?" Dixon's brain snapped into focus with a few thoughts about praying mantises and black-widow spiders. "Or was that Lauren after all?"

"Doesn't matter," Olivia answered, as calmly as if though she was at an airport counter and somebody had asked "window or aisle?" "He's dead, and I'm free."

Dixon laughed. "As long as you work with the Covenant – you're never free."

Olivia's eyes darkened and she brought the gun up toward him; apparently he'd pushed his luck just a little too far. "It's been nice talking, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring this chat to a close."

"What? We're just now getting acquainted."

The response to this was something Dixon felt, not heard – a bone-deep thud in his jaw that sent the world sprawling. Then he did hear something, a sound that he suspected might be his own body hitting the floor.

He opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – to see Olivia Reed crawling over him so that her blonde hair brushed against his face. "If you ever get sick of coloring inside the lines," she said, "give me a call. You're wasted in the CIA."

"I don't agree." He could throw her now, if he could only move his arms.

"I think you're eager for more, Mr. Dixon." Olivia's face was very close to his now. "I think you need a little more fun in your life."

Which was exactly what he'd been thinking, with one critical distinction: "I do not have fun with international terrorists."

"Too bad." Her red lips twisted in a smirk. "I'm sure Jack Bristow would tell you – you meet the most interesting women that way."

Then the silver gun flashed down again, and everything went dark.

**

Sloane had checked out of the room shortly after Olivia had left it; Olivia's skill notwithstanding, he had no doubt that Jack would detect the double-cross within a few minutes. When his cell phone rang again, Sloane was only surprised that he'd had enough time to get in his limo.

"Just tell me this, Arvin." Jack had somehow become even colder. "Did you ever contemplate following through on our agreement? Even for an hour? It's merely morbid curiosity, but I wanted to ask."

"What concerns Rambaldi concerns Nadia," Sloane said. "Forgive me for putting my loyalty to her ahead of my loyalty to you. You've done the same for Sydney, and I've never judged you for it."

"The message in the Waning Moon also concerns Sydney." Jack paused, then said, "I take it you're putting me on notice -- that your lifelong obsession with my daughter will no longer protect her."

Could Jack ever understand the dread that had gripped him these past three years? The horror of knowing that he might someday have to sacrifice Sydney's life to save his own child? "Nadia is my first priority," Sloane said. "Just as Sydney is yours. I made a promise to myself when I learned Irina had given birth to my child – a promise that nothing would ever be more important than my daughter."

"I've made promises too," Jack said. His voice was different, but Sloane had no time to determine precisely how; Jack immediately hung up.

Heart heavy, Sloane punched in another number. Olivia Reed answered, "What?"

"You sound distressed," he said. "Is everything going well?"

"Fine," she said. "I'm just – annoyed with myself."

"Jack Bristow just called me. If he's been following the original plan, then he's already in the Pleasure Dome. He's aware of the double-cross, and he's about to take action."

Olivia sighed. "I'm on it." Sloane did not repeat his insistence that she not kill Jack; he knew she remembered, and he was reasonably confident that she would obey. But Jack had not heard those instructions, and he would probably fight to defend himself. In those circumstances, anything could happen.

So be it. For the time being, perhaps Jack and Sydney had to fall by the wayside. The day might yet come when they would understand everything – all his choices, all his gambles, the full extent of the price each of them had had to pay. Then, perhaps, apologies could be made. Sloane was ready to forgive.

**

Now that Will had completed all his tasks, and the Really Cool Mysterious Woman was gone, his mission had entered a stage that could best be called "boring as hell."

Flipping channels with the remote, Will tossed a few pillows behind his bed and settled back for an uneventful few hours. He went by one channel so quickly he almost missed it, but there were certain images that required only a millisecond to register in the male brain. He flipped back, then grinned.

Yes! Free porn. This night was looking up –

The hotel phone rang, and Will answered in his best high-roller voice. "Hel-LO. Who am I TALKING to?"

"Mr. Tippin," Jack Bristow said, "I'm afraid I need you to take care of one further task tonight."

Oh, crap. There was trouble. "Yeah, yeah, anything. What is it?"

Just then, the buxom girl on the TV screen started screaming, "Give it to me, baby! Pound me harder!"

Will fumbled with the remote to shut the television off, but not in time to prevent an awkward pause on the line. Jack finally said, "Am I interrupting something?"

"No! Absolutely not – just – uh – the room has free porn."

"I see." Most men would understand about free porn. Jack did not seem to be one of these men. "If you would be so good as to interrupt your leisure activities, you could help us get Mr. Dixon and Mr. Flinkman out of the casino."

"Why can't they get themselves out of the casino?"

"They were attacked by one of Sloane's operatives. Due to your believed status as a high-roller at the casino, and your real status as a relative outsider to espionage, I think Sloane will be reluctant to move against you. Dixon and Marshall are both injured. I don't know how seriously, but I suspect you won't need to find them medical attention. Just get them out of the Xanadu and to the airport. Slide the key card to your room halfway beneath the door as you leave; I want the space available if anyone needs it."

Holy crap, holy crap, this was BAD. Will could feel panic welling up – not so much at the thought of the attacker, but because he didn't know what to do. "How am I supposed to get two injured guys out of the casino?" Carry them? Marshall, maybe, but Dixon was a big guy.

"I can't devise a scenario with as few facts as I have available. I can only tell you their location and leave the rest to your ingenuity."

That was either the most terrifying or the most flattering thing Will had ever heard. Quite probably it was both. He liked thinking of himself as a guy who could handle this stuff, but really, when you got right down to it, he did one of two things in spy situations: he hung onto Sydney and/or Jack and hoped for the best, or he got squashed like a bug. That was the beginning, middle and end of the Spy Will Story.

Then he found himself remembering the Really Cool Mysterious' Woman's voice: Write another story.

He took a deep breath. "Tell me where they are."

**

It had taken Vaughn too long to get to the south vault to check on the override – in other words, to make certain Dixon, Marshall and Sark had gotten out of the south vault with the diamonds, and that no other security guards, more committed to the job, went there instead. Every few minutes, he was pulled aside by some of these guards who wanted to talk about the explosion, their theories, and the absolutely critical reasons they had for checking out the scene across the street. Some people were suckers for a change in routine.

Vaughn would give anything to have a routine again.

With some difficulty, he put his depression aside. He had a job to do: get the others out of the south vault, then get back to the north vault and make sure Sydney was okay. Not that she'd need it – just to check.

Seeing Sark again wasn't going to be any fun, particularly as he wasn't going to have a chance to murder the son of a bitch. The memory of electricity coursing through him, searing pain and utter humiliation intertwined, still awakened Vaughn in the early hours of the morning, made him spend hours staring out his window at the black night sky. Was Lauren really the force that had caused all his wounds? Or had she merely been the blade in Sark's hands?

In Sark's hands. Literally. Her infidelity hurt him, still, though Vaughn couldn't say why.

He put his hand on his standard-issue gun – nowhere near as powerful or accurate as the weapons he used at the CIA, but serviceable – as he made his way through the hallway leading directly to the south vault. Almost immediately, his training kicked in, taking over from his overtired mind. And just as quickly, that training drew Vaughn's attention to details that were all wrong.

The hallway had two dark streaks along its length, as if somebody had dragged something heavy down it – a cart, perhaps, or maybe a chair. A woman's shoe, a single black patent-leather heel, lay just outside the doorway. And the door was slightly ajar.

Vaughn couldn't put those clues together into a narrative, but he knew that they were no longer anywhere near the original plan.

Sliding along the hallway, he listened carefully for any sound, any hint of what was happening. Almost immediately, he received it.

"If you want the Waning Moon, you're not going to find it like this," Sydney said. What the hell was Sydney doing in this vault? And where was the Waning Moon? Wasn't she supposed to have it? "Why are you hanging around the one place you know the Waning Moon ISN'T?"

"Because you have information." It was Julian Sark's voice, as cold and arrogant as it had been the night of Vaughn's torture. "Information I mean to hear."

Vaughn knew too well how far Sark would go for that. His first impulse was to contact Jack, who would no doubt respond to such a threat at near-light speed. But he couldn't speak into the mic in his hat without alerting Sark to his presence. And leaving – with Sydney in trouble – was not an option.

I can't do this, he thought. I can't be trusted with this.

But there was nobody else.

**

Bell, dice, cherries.

Double bar, bar, bell.

Diamond, cherries, 7.

Honestly, Katya thought, this is strange entertainment. One quarter, three pictures, no money. Maybe this counted as excitement for people who never took risks. To her, this was the definition of boredom.

Double bar, 7, dice.

"Win anything?" It was her sister's voice.

Katya only half-turned to acknowledge Irina; making a scene would serve nobody's purpose. "Not yet. I'm only playing for the hell of it."

"Is there any word?"

"If I'd heard anything further about Nadia, I would have contacted you immediately. You know that."

"I do. But I had to ask. I can't stop wondering."

"What have you heard?" Katya asked. A shrug meant nothing, everything – who knew? At any rate, Irina had nothing to share. "Are you going to talk to Sydney tonight?"

The longing in her sister's eyes was clear, but she said, "No. I couldn't find her without interfering with the plan and endangering her. So – it has to wait." Irina draped herself over a nearby machine, obviously tired and not bothering to hide it. Her youngest sister looked as beautiful as Katya had ever seen her – only in a room as noisy and glitzy as a Vegas gambling establishment could Irina fail to draw the attention of everyone around her. But she looked tired, and – at least to Katya's knowing eyes – sad. Katya could easily name a dozen reasons for that sorrow, Nadia chief among them. Certainly in Irina's place, she didn't think she would have the strength not to find Sydney, even for Sydney's own safety. But for the first time, Katya saw Irina's grief wondered how deeply she herself had added to it.

Time to find out, for Irina's good, and Jack's, and her own.

Irina watched the spinning wheels of Katya's machine as they came up 7, diamond, double bar. "You didn't mention this errand," Irina said.

"I didn't see the point; it's minor." This, so far as it went, was true. More importantly, it gave her an opening. "Besides, it's not as if I've kept any secrets from you regarding Jack."

Dice, bar, dice.

His name hung between them, heavy in the air. The gamble paid off. Irina's eyes finally met hers, and if Katya could not read what she saw there, she knew what she didn't see.

"Ah," Katya whispered. "All those years, all those stories about the CIA fool you deceived – they were lies, after all." Well, not all lies. Irina had said that at least her assigned husband was good in bed, a fact Katya had verified to her satisfaction. "I ought to have known. Why did I ever believe you?"

"You believed me because I meant for you to believe," Irina said. She half-smiled, looking at a horizon that existed only in her memory. "I meant to believe it too. For many years, I did believe it. Until the day I saw him again."

Bell, cherries, double bar. Katya heard her money clatter away, spent on nothing yet again. In her heart she felt no guilt – it did not trouble her often – but she was aware of both sadness and a kind of fear.

Sometimes she felt as though Irina was the only person in the entire world she had ever truly known; sometimes she felt as though she'd never known Irina at all.

"Then it's over," Katya said, finishing the discussion before they ever had it. "Jack and I."

"Do you care for him?" Irina watched the pictures spinning in front of them so intently that it might have been her money on the line. "If you do -- I have no further claim on Jack. I know that too well."

Katya did not answer the question. "You're the one he loves."

Irina only looked more tired. "But I'm not the one he trusts."

Dice, 7, 7.

"He doesn't trust me," Katya said. Only a fool would do so on such a short acquaintance, no matter how intimate; Katya had believed Jack Bristow a fool for decades, but had learned better within the first hour of their acquaintance.

"Not yet."

Look at us, Katya thought. Two Derevko women, pushing away the man we want because we think he makes us vulnerable, needy, week. As much as she hated that thought, she despised the other alternative more: the idea that perhaps they were behaving like this for Jack's sake, and not their own. Katya sincerely hoped the day had not come when Derevkos would bleed for a man before they would fight for him.

"We could always let Jack decide," Katya said.

"Don't be absurd," Irina said absently, as the wheels showed cherries, diamond, bell.

"Talk to him." Katya broke open another roll of quarters; the motion was automatic by this point, almost soothing. Maybe that was what the slot jockeys liked about spending time this way – action without thought. "Tell him the truth – no, not everything, I haven't lost my mind. But the truth about yourself. About the two of you."

Irina's eyes were dark, unreadable. "The truth changes nothing."

"Between you and Jack? Perhaps not. But it changes things between you and me. It makes it – fair." She weighed her words, decided that yes, that was what she'd meant to say. If they both wanted Jack – then, by God, let it be a fight, hard and bloody and out in the open. Not the slow corrosion of unwilling sacrifice, of silence and lies. In the first scenario, even defeat might be a delight; in the second, even victory would be hollow. Whatever Jack Bristow was to each of them, they had to remain allies for one another. That was more important than any man.

Did her sister understand? To judge from the light in Irina's eyes – the spark she only got when she was thinking about combat or sex -- she did. "We play dangerous games, Yekaterina."

"What else is life about?" Katya put another coin in the slot. "I expect to lose, you know. I never underestimate my opponent's skill."

Diamond, diamond, diamond.

WHANG WHANG WHANG WHANG WHANG! Sirens began blaring, lights began flashing, and half the gaming floor turned to stare at Katya as coins began pouring from the slot machine in a heavy golden tide. The bright blue letters atop the machine blinked JACKPOT!

Katya rolled her eyes. "Oh, shit."

"How about this?" A casino employee came running toward them, yelling into a bullhorn. "The Xanadu has yet another $50,000 winner!"

Applause and cheered welled up. Katya looked over at Irina in dismay; the last thing they wanted was this much attention. Wisely, Irina had already begun edging away from the commotion.

Their eyes met once more, and Irina said – barely audible over the yelps and whoops of the people who'd begun to surround them – "I never underestimate my opponent's luck."

Then Irina was gone, lost in the crowd. Putting her hands over the slot, Katya tried to stem the flood of coins, but it was useless. A photographer was already hurrying over to get a picture, which was unlikely to be seen by Interpol, but still made her uncomfortable.

Is this good luck or bad? Katya thought. What the hell. My winnings should be good for a drink, anyway, and right now I could use another.

**

Sydney hadn't been scared of Sark for a long time -- not since he'd poured chemical solvents on her safety suit four years ago, and even that was mostly terror that they wouldn't broker their deal in time to save Vaughn.

But now – half-naked, cold, cut off from her friends and her father, surrounded by a ring of blinking red lights for alarms that made no sound, with Sark's pistol aimed squarely at her head – she was beginning to remember what that fear felt like.

"We've always had unfinished business between us, you and I." Sark's eyes were appraising; his sexual interest in her, never pleasant, was repugnant now. Sydney had no fears of rape, for the strange yet true reason that it simply wasn't Julian Sark's style. But merely having to stand there for his inspection made her flesh crawl. "But I am a man who can live with -- unanswered questions."

"Then we ought to be fine here. You asked a question; I can't answer it. Live with that."

Sark tilted his head. "I'm afraid it's not that simple."

Behind him, the door slowly began to push open. Sydney forced her face to remain still as she saw Vaughn's face in the shadows. His gun was at the ready – but, she realized with an unpleasant jolt – not cocked. He must not have had a chance to do so without being heard, and if he tried it now –

The Glock was still in Sark's hand, cocked and ready; as she watched, he lowered the weapon so that it was aimed at her hipbone. She didn't move, and she forced herself not to look at the gun, not at Vaughn. "You might feel more talkative after I've demonstrated my convictions. Though the blood loss would render any conversation necessarily brief."

Vaughn stepped in the room, moving forward. His eyes – Sydney had only seen that expression in them a few times, never before he'd learned of Lauren's treachery. It terrified her, even now. She knew, beyond any doubt, that Vaughn wanted to kill Sark. Maybe he wanted to kill Sark more than he wanted to save her. And if he thought like that, he could end up killing them both.

"How do you know my father was sure of the Waning Moon's location?" she challenged, hoping for a distraction. "Isn't it possible he just made a mistake?"

"Jack Bristow? Don't make me laugh." Sark's confidence in her father was both unexpected and extremely inconvenient.

And now Vaughn was coming closer, and closer again. His form was perfect, his movement soundless. His eyes were fixed on a spot at the back of Sark's neck, the perfect place for bullets to shatter a brain beyond any repair.

He's gonna take the shot, she realized. He's gonna take the shot, which means he's gonna cock the pistol, which means Sark has plenty of time to turn around and blow Vaughn to Kingdom –

Vaughn's left hand came down and slapped a panel on the console – and every alarm in the place began to shriek at once.

Startled, Sark whirled around – but that one moment of shock gave Vaughn time to send the pistol swinging toward Sark's head. The resulting THUD sent Sark falling to the ground like so much dead weight.

Sydney hurdled over his body and grabbed Vaughn's arm. "Go! Let's GO!"

"Sark –" Vaughn stared at the man sprawled on the floor.

"The guards are coming. The REAL guards!"

"Go," Vaughn said, either agreeing with her or commanding himself. And together they ran away from Sark, the robbery, and the entire failed plan.

**

Jack Bristow had come into this mission certain he was prepared for absolutely anything. But now, as he stood in his makeshift headquarters, he knew he had never adequately planned for the Pleasure Dome.

The main source of lighting was a series of gas-jet flames; the outer ring, nearer the windows, didn't seem to be working, but several of them had sprung to life near the bar. Meanwhile, a fountain pumped water through glass blocks meant to simulate ice, which created a few waist-high walls throughout the interior. All around were soft cushions and couches upholstered in red and purple and gold. Lanterns with thick, mottled gold shades hung from chains. The entire effect was vaguely reminiscent of the Playboy mansion circa 1973. (That had been a strange mission, one Jack didn't like to recall.)

He walked toward the windows and looked down. Ringing the ground below were a series of small swimming pools in various shapes – a guitar, a martini glass, a racing car. Past that was the parking lot, where the orange van could still be seen. Jack began counting off the various facets of their current situation: the pit boss was in that van, still obviously undiscovered. Katya was awaiting final instructions. Weiss had just reported in from the airport, where he was receiving first aid in the CIA-chartered jet --

"What luck," the voice said, "to find you alone."

Jack turned around slowly to see Olivia Reed emerging from behind one of the walls of glass. The tiles reflected the white of her clothing in curved white slices, moving as she moved. Her gun was too big for her hand, but he didn't doubt she could use it.

"Mrs. Reed. I haven't seen you since your – bereavement."

She smiled, thin lips curving upward. "Tragic, wasn't it? I never told you how much I appreciated your support during that difficult time. By the way, I'm not here to kill you, in case you were wondering."

"You'd already have killed me, if you were," Jack replied. "But I doubt you just stopped by to say hello."

"It's come to my attention that you might object to my daughter and her associates leaving the Xanadu with the items they came for. I can't allow that to happen." Olivia motioned with the pistol. "Back up against that pillar. Sit on the floor. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I really should have been armed for this, Jack thought. But he wasn't, which meant he had no alternative but to back up to the pillar.

Olivia kept the gun trained on him while she drew a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of her pants; Jack allowed her to slide the metal around one wrist, then the other. He was now effectively trapped. Although he knew someone from the CIA would look for him here sooner or later, the feeling was unwelcome.

"We have a lot in common, you and I," she said. "I think we've both shared the chagrin of knowing that Michael Vaughn didn't deserve our daughters."

"No man deserves your daughter," Jack replied, with an inflection that made it clear precisely what he meant by.

Her boot caught him in the side, hard enough that he was surprised his ribs didn't crack. Wincing, he sucked in a breath as Olivia said, "You have a gun to your head, Mr. Bristow. If you're not afraid, you should be."

A crunch, a thud, and then Olivia went sprawling past him, head over heels. She caught herself quickly enough, rolling back up onto her feet in a fighting position, but the gun was gone.

"The only person who should be afraid in here is you," Irina said, moving from behind the leather-covered bar that she'd apparently hidden behind. Her eyes were flashing as she flexed her hands. "Because if anyone's going to use handcuffs on Jack, it's me."

**

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER EIGHT


	8. Chapter 8

"Julian!"

The voice seemed to come from a very great distance away. Sark opened his eyes to see who was calling to him; this revealed only the slack, unconscious face of a fat man. A security guard. He'd seen that man before, but where?

Oh, yes. When he'd shot him.

"Julian!" He was rolled over on his back, and he realized that the voice belonged to Lauren; she was actually standing above him, shaking him awake. "We must go. Now!"

"Yes. Yes, all right." At the moment, Sark didn't know where he was going or why it was important. Furthermore he had some doubts as to whether or not Lauren should be trusted. But any scenario that involved him lying stunned on the floor while alarm sirens shrieked was a scenario he was better off leaving.

One of his arms was pulled over her shoulder, and he tried to support as much of his own weight as he could. His face hurt, and his legs didn't seem to want to obey his commands, but Sark found that he could at least keep up with Lauren. She steered them into a service elevator – he suspected that was what it was, anyway, with the heavy quilting hung on the walls – and punched the number for the ground floor. "Good job," he managed to say.

"If the guards hadn't discovered the alarms for the other vault – they'd have caught us. They still might." Her body trembled against his; Sark found it inexplicably sexy.

"Relax. We're almost out." Sark forced himself to stand on his own. It got easier after a moment. "We don't have the Waning Moon."

Lauren grimaced. "Sloane will be furious."

"To hell with Arvin Sloane and his power plays. We'll come back for it without the CIA. Without Sloane, if we have to." He fished in the pocket of his jacket and held up the gray pouch. "Besides, it's not as if we made the trip for nothing."

"The diamonds." Her eyes lit up, and even through his pain and disorientation, Sark delighted in her girlish greed.

"All ours." Sark dropped the bag back in his pocket before the elevator opened, and they strolled through the casino slowly, easily, like any other pair of vacationers. As they approached the glass doors leading to the exit, he felt that familiar last-minute tension. This was the moment when people were most likely to betray themselves, just as they began to think they were safe. But Julian Sark never made the mistake of thinking of himself as safe.

In the glass doors, he could see their reflections, his and Lauren's., side by side. He realized that each of them had shoe prints on their faces: the same shoes, different feet. It looked rather as though a woman in spiked heels had stood on their faces.

Nobody else noticed the shoe prints. Nobody else noticed them. Only a few more steps, and they sailed out into the last, pale-gray hour of the night.

**

Olivia Reed stared. "Who the hell are you?"

"Irina Derevko. We've never met." Irina tilted her head, and Jack could see the feral gleam in her eyes. "But I think you've heard of me."

Obviously, Olivia knew who she was dealing with – but instead of looking afraid, she was smiling, settling her hands on her hips. From this, Jack could draw two possible conclusions: Either Olivia hadn't heard nearly enough about Irina Derevko, or he hadn't heard nearly enough about Olivia Reed.

The two women began moving, circling each other – and Jack – slowly. After the first few steps, Irina slipped out of her heels, leaving them behind. Bare feet were often good for one-on-one combat.

"Irina, this is – appreciated, but unnecessary," Jack said, meaning it. While he gave Olivia only slim chances of doing any harm to Irina, he saw no reason for Irina to take any chances at all, not on his account.

Olivia answered, but she spoke to Irina. "Men. They're always telling you what to do."

"We're not allies," Irina said through her smirk. "Spare us both the indignity of your sisterhood lecture."

Jack, realizing he had no other constructive action to take, started looking for the gun. Olivia had to have dropped it when she fell; he couldn't grab it himself, but he could at least warn Irina if Olivia seemed close to regaining it.

"I thought you chewed Jack Bristow up and spit him out a long time ago," Olivia said.

"True, as far as it goes."

"I am still in the room," Jack pointed out. As he'd suspected, neither of the women took any notice.

Olivia was behind him at this point, nothing but a voice. "Then why are you saving him now? Seems like a big risk to take for a mark you played 30 years back."

Irina was in front of him, and their eyes met as she answered Olivia: "Maybe there's more to the story than you know."

Then SMACK – a blur of white was only recognizable as Olivia's leg after it had made contact with Irina's side. Irina half-turned out of the blow, settling into a fighting stance. Her earrings swung back and forth, catching the light.

"If you think Jack Bristow's worth dying for," Olivia said, "be my guest."

**

Taking it nice and easy, Will thought. Improvising. Baby-steps improvising.

"I think I might barf," Marshall confided. He was leaning against one wall, half-walking, half-sliding toward the exit. Against the other wall, Dixon was doing the same.

"Don't barf," Will said. "Well, I mean, barf if you gotta, but keep moving."

"You know the problem with danger?" Dixon said, his tread weary. "It's dangerous."

"A fine semantic point you make there. Too often ignored. Keep walking." Blows to the head, Will thought as he looked at Dixon. They turn good men strange. Then he looked at Marshall and added, They turn strange men stranger.

Despite the slowness and confusion of his companions, Will thought the rescue mission was going well. He'd found Dixon and Marshall easily enough, and they'd already regained consciousness when he arrived. They'd gotten out of the security corridor into an empty hallway without any trouble, and if they could just get up to his hotel room and wait on the VIP passes, they should be home fr –

"Hey! You there!"

Oh, crap.

Will turned to see three security guards jogging toward them. Apparently the distraction caused by the Pagoda of Light explosion had reached the point where it was less distracting. "Who are you? You're not supposed to be in this area!"

"We have to get out of here," Dixon whispered. "I can't fight –"

I'm not gonna panic, Will thought. Except my palms are all sweaty, and I can't think straight, and I want to run away, which means I'm pretty much panicking, already. Oh, this is not good. Not good.

He sucked in a deep breath, tried to calm himself. And other words came to mind:

Improvise. Trust your instincts. Write another story.

"Press!" Will yelled.

The guards stopped running, started staring. The tallest one said, "What?"

"I'm with the press! Will – Munkle for the Kansas City Star. I'm doing an investigative piece on security in casinos. And the Xanadu has fallen short." He folded his arms in front of him, wishing like hell he had a notebook. "Did you know that your HR department waives the background checks on new personnel? This man –" Will thwapped Dixon on the arm, earning a scowl. "—was hired as a dealer. He's not a dealer. He's working with me."

One of the guards groaned, "Goddamn reporters."

The tallest one said, "Your game's over, Geraldo. Come on. You're leaving."

"You can't throw us out of the casino!" Will got up in the guy's face. "This is America, buddy! Home of a free press! You ever hear of a little thing we call the First Amendment? Huh?"

"You ever hear of casino rules?" The tallest guard motioned at the other two. "Escort them out. If they won't walk, THROW them out."

He'd been out of the business for a while, but the essentials hadn't changed. Everyone still hated reporters.

"This is outrageous!" Will shouted as they started towing him, Dixon and Marshall down the hall. "What happened at the Tsunami tonight – what's to stop it from happening here? Your security regulations? I don't think so! Your guests have a right to know!"

"Don't just throw them out," the tallest guard said. "Throw them in a cab, and tell the driver he better not take his foot off the gas until these jokers are at the airport."

Marshall started coughing very hard, no doubt to cover the fact that he was laughing. Even Dixon began to smile. Will thought: Damn, I'm good.

**

Jack breathed in sharply as Irina spun into the bar, its railing catching her beneath her ribcage. In only an instant, she'd recovered, kicking Olivia hard enough to throw her back. Still, Olivia was a far stronger opponent than Jack would have guessed – or, he thought, than Irina had anticipated.

"Makes a nice change," Olivia panted, bracing herself against one of the glass-brick walls. Water flowed behind her, shimmering. "Fighting another woman. It happens too rarely."

"You know what they say about the glass ceiling." Irina seemed to be slumping backward – but then she grabbed something and hurled it at Olivia. Bombay Sapphire, Jack thought in the second it was airborne; Olivia ducked it just in time. The bottle shattered against the bricks, spraying glass through the air. Jack resisted the urge to call to Irina; he could not support her, only distract her.

Olivia's head snapped up, and the smile she'd worn before was now something closer to a snarl. But she spoke calmly: "This is ridiculous, you know. We're on the same side – or we could be. Arvin's always said that he hoped you would join us."

Jack closed his eyes, only for a moment, just long enough for it to sink in.

When he opened them again, Irina was staring at Olivia, her eyes dark. Olivia pressed her momentary advantage: "He knows you're angry. He hasn't told me your reasons; that's private, I'm sure. But I know you're the mother of his child. I don't think you appreciate what that means."

"I know what it means," Irina murmured. The gaslight flames burned brightly behind her, turning her hair from brown to bronze.

"Surely you want your daughter as badly as he does." Olivia stepped forward. "You have the same goals. Why not work together?"

Irina's hand shot out, gripping Olivia's throat. As Olivia gasped, Irina said, "I've made a lot of mistakes. That's not going to be one of them. Not again."

Something in Jack, something that had been binding him tightly for far too long, relaxed, loosened, set him free. He exhaled as it lifted from him.

Olivia choked out the words, "Have it – your way." Then she lunged forward, butting her forehead into Irina's. Irina, stunned, stumbled backward, tripping on the hem of her gown.

"Arvin told me not to kill Jack," Olivia said, holding her temple as she stared down at her opponent. "He didn't say a damn thing about you."

**

The key card to Will's room had been left halfway beneath the door; Sydney was able to smuggle her and Vaughn in without any trouble. Will, she was disappointed to see, wasn't there. Neither was anyone else. But the evening's litter was strewn about, a strange, makeshift collection: empty champagne bottles, a caramel-colored wig, candy wrappers from the minibar. "Some backup disguises should be in Will's luggage," Sydney said. "I don't care what Marshall came up with, as long as it's not this bikini."

"I don't know," Vaughn said. "It has its – qualities."

It wasn't the joke. It wasn't even the half-smile on his face as he said it. It was the expression in his eyes – gentle and humorous and alive – that made Sydney stop and stare at him. This was the man she'd fallen in love with, the man she hadn't seen in years.

After a moment, she said, "Thanks for saving me."

The smile left his face, but his gaze was still locked with hers; it was still Vaughn, her Vaughn, talking. "I nearly didn't. I wanted to take him out – God, Syd, I wanted to blow him away so badly –"

"I know. I saw. But you didn't do it."

"I couldn't do it. Not without risking you." Vaughn sighed and pulled off his security guard's cap. "Even knowing that, I came so close. Too close."

Sydney felt tears pricking at her eyes, but good tears, for the first time in a while. "It doesn't matter how close you came. What matters is that you didn't do it."

"I still want – need – my revenge." Vaughn's hand closed around hers, and for the first time in months his touch made her feel safe, and strong, and loved. "But you matter more. You always have. You always will."

**

Jack kept turning that way and this, grateful for what little motion he had, frustrated at his inability to help Irina. Irina was undoubtedly a better fighter than Olivia – but Olivia was good. Good enough to get in a single killing blow, and one blow like that was all it took.

"You're a fool," Olivia said, ducking one of Irina's punches. She was panting now, strands of her golden hair stuck to her face and neck with sweat. "Arvin would do anything for Nadia. That means he'd do anything for you."

Olivia kicked out, catching Irina in the gut. The black skirt of Irina's dress spun out as Irina tumbled to the floor, revealing her long legs – and a black garter high on one thigh. Jack stared as Irina slipped her fingers into it and pulled out a black bar; with one SNICK, the switchblade opened, gleaming in the light of sunrise.

Irina rose to her feet as Olivia backed away. "Tell Arvin Sloane he can do exactly two things for me." With a slash, Irina lunged at Olivia, who jumped backwards toward the window. "First, he can stay the hell away from my daughters."

One clumsy grab for Irina's blade left Olivia off-balance, and she teetered back as Irina pushed forward again.

"Second?" Irina brought the knife up to Olivia's throat. "He can stay the hell away from my husband."

Irina spun and kicked Olivia in the belly, sending her flying back – smashing through the window, glass cracking and shattering into a thousand pieces. For one instant, Olivia seemed to hang there in the air, her white-clad body brilliant against the dawn sky – but then she plunged downward without a scream.

For a few seconds, Irina just watched her fall. Then she retracted her knife's blade and hurried to Jack. "The gun –"

"Beneath the purple chair." Jack motioned with his foot. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Gun in hand, she walked behind him. "Let's get rid of these handcuffs."

Jack felt distinctly uneasy about this. "You're shooting them off? Is that wise?"

"We need you mobile as soon as possible, in case we have to leave in a hurry."

"But – at such short range –"

"You sleeping with my sister, I can forgive. But if you insult my aim, we're going to have trouble."

The gunshot was deafening at such close range, and the jolt against his wrists hurt – but the chain was broken, and Jack was finally free. "Olivia Reed," he said, flexing his hands to restore circulation. "Is she dead?"

"No." Irina sounded both annoyed and unwillingly impressed. "See for yourself."

Stepping to the shattered window, Jack looked down at saw Olivia in the martini-shaped pool; slowly, she was making her way to the ladder. Her lean white form looked like the swizzle stick. He raised his eyebrows. "She's tough." When he glanced at Irina next to him, her arms were folded across her chest, one eyebrow raised in mock anger. "You're tougher."

"That's better."

**

Lauren pressed down on a switch, raising the privacy shield between the limo driver and herself and Julian. He was splayed out at the far end, jacket off, green silk shirt halfway unbuttoned. "Must we stay here?"

"Mom's meeting us soon," Lauren reminded him. "Besides, I can think of plenty of fun we can have right here."

He didn't raise his head to look at her, but she could see his smile. "You wicked, wicked thing."

Tinted windows are marvelously convenient, Lauren thought. She pulled off the frightful wig, shook out her own blonde hair. Then she lifted up the sunflower-printed dress, pulling it off her head. That left her, naked but for jewel-green panties, kneeling on the limousine floor.

Julian did sit up then, and his eyes were sharp. "There you are," he whispered. "I hardly knew you."

"You know me." Lauren stretched out on one of the long, cushioned seats that ran the length of the limo. The velveteen was soft against her back, her thighs. "You're the only man who does."

He leaned over her, then grabbed the bag of diamonds and emptied it onto her belly. Lauren laughed in surprise and glee as they twinkled against her pale skin. Who knew diamonds could be so cold?

It's true, she thought, speaking in her mind to the absent Mr. Weiss. What I told you is true. You only get the things you steal.

**

Vaughn had spent most of the last year with Sydney, but somehow it felt as though he'd never been close to her – not like this. This felt different, better, stronger; it was as though she'd never been gone. How often had he wished for the ability to turn back time? Maybe they had, just for a day, or an hour.

She tugged off her wig with one hand, the one he didn't have clasped in his own. Beneath it, her hair was slicked down and sweaty. What did it mean that he found that sexy? Incredibly sexy, come to think of it.

"We should –" Her voice was shaky. "Our disguises –"

"Syd." Vaughn tightened his hand around hers. "I know things between us – it's complicated, and it's not going to stop being complicated –"

"Right. Exactly."

"But the way we feel about each other isn't going to change –"

Her face brightened. "No, it isn't. Not – not ever."

He stepped a little closer; her body was just inches from his now, her lips near his own. "And maybe we still have a long way to go –"

"We do. Absolutely. We do –"

"But Dr. Barnett says one of the things I have to learn to do again is trust my instincts, and Sydney – right now – my instincts –"

"What are they telling you?"

The last sliver of Vaughn's reticence shattered, and he swept her into his arms. "To stop thinking about the damned consequences."

**

Jack sat on one of the plush ottomans of the Pleasure Dome, holding his wrist out to Irina. She'd already used one of her hairpins to pick the lock on the first cuff; the second was nearly free, he thought.

The cool desert breeze ruffled her hair, baring the nape of her neck, the expanse of her forehead, now creased with concentration. Her bare arms showed the bruises Olivia had inflicted, already faint blue beneath her golden skin. Only feet away, broken glass littered the floor in sharp, small points of light. A few feet in the other direction, the gas-jet flames still flickered, painting his skin with stripes of heat. But he and Irina were nested in the middle, amid the soft drapes and long couches in red and purple. He decided he liked the contrast.

"Done," Irina said, pulling the second cuff off.

Jack rubbed his wrists, but it was her hands he looked at, so close to his own. When one of his fingers brushed against hers, she didn't pull away.

Without glancing up, she said, "Are you going to talk to me about Katya?"

Jack answered with his own question. "Are you going to explain?"

Neither of them made any other reply. He'd known they wouldn't.

Perhaps it didn't matter. Explanations and crimes and secrets and forgiveness – all those flowed between them, always, and nothing ever changed, for good or for ill. There was only one real question to ask: "Will I ever see you again?"

She raised her face to his, her eyes inexpressibly sad. "I couldn't say."

Jack gave up trying to understand the past, trying to predict the future. All that mattered was that Irina was here, with him, now. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, then cupped her chin in his palm, lowering her face to his until their lips met.

**

Sark lowered himself over Lauren – still clothed, still aching, still longing for nothing so much as sleep. But there was just something about a near-naked woman covered in diamonds.

Writhing sinuously beneath him, Lauren brushed her breasts against the green silk of his shirt, smiling at the caress of the soft fabric. "That feels delicious," she whispered.

"You like silk, do you?" Sark sat up on his knees and began unbuttoning the shirt. "We can do some interesting things with that."

Lauren wasn't the girl of his dreams – she wasn't Allison, nor even Sydney – but ah, she knew how to play.

**

"I am sick – and tired – of this bikini," Sydney panted against Vaughn's throat.

"I could not agree more." Pulling away from her on the bed, he set about working on the clasp of her bikini top. The hotel bedspread was scratchy against her back, and the lights were on, and Will or somebody could walk in pretty much anytime – no, no, she had the keycard, but still, they could knock – and Sydney didn't care. She just didn't care.

Ever since he'd come to her in Hong Kong, Sydney had longed for Vaughn's touch again. At first she had wanted him for her own comfort, then as revenge against Lauren for taking him away, then as a way of taking care of him, trying to make him whole once more.

But now –

\--her heart was pounding, and she could feel her pulse in her fingertips and her neck and her belly, on the soles of her feet and between her legs, and Vaughn was pulling off her top and looking down at her like he'd never seen anything so beautiful, so desirable, so needed in his whole life –

\--she just wanted him. And Vaughn was hers.

**

Irina's fingers deftly loosened his bow tie. Jack's hands found the halter neck's fastening, unclasping it so that the glittering black fabric fell to her waist. They worked together to remove her bra, done in an instant, so that Jack could trail his fingers along her collarbone, across the golden expanse of fragile skin, down to cup her breast in his palm. How could her beauty still stun him, more than thirty years after they'd first made love? How could he still find her body so surprising and overwhelming and new?

Jack kissed her again, then again, deepening their kisses each time. She drew his tongue into her mouth, sucking gently, so that he leaned forward, the better to let her have her way. The studs of his tuxedo shirt snapped as she pulled it open, and he shuddered as her fingers brushed against his chest.

Their lips parted for her to gasp in a breath; Jack took advantage of his freedom to kiss his way down her neck, down to her breasts. As he captured one nipple in his mouth, Irina made a small sound in the back of her throat – a sound he knew well. It meant for him to keep going, and he would, and nothing could stop them, not now.

**

"You can do quite a lot of things with silk," Sark whispered as he traced around the edge of her ear with his tongue. Shivering, Lauren forced herself to lie still on the limousine seat; she could always tell when Julian wanted to take charge, and it was generally a great deal of fun to let him.

He kept talking, in that low, crystal-sharp voice of his, each exhalation creating a warm puff against her bare skin as he slid down the length of her body. "You can use it as a blindfold, for instance. Or you can tie someone's arms behind her back. Take away her ability to resist."

Julian's breath was against her belly now, and Lauren trembled as two of his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her panties and slowly, so slowly, pulled them away.

"However, I have something different in mind today." He slipped the shirt off – oh, Julian's shoulders, Julian's chest, the hard, flat muscles of his abdomen.

"What is it?" she whispered, quivering with the need to know, with the need for Julian to touch her, in any way he wanted to, any way at all.

Grasping the end of the sleeve in one hand and the shoulder with another, Julian brought the band of green silk between her legs, so that the cool-smooth fabric split her in two. Then slowly, so slowly, he began to draw it back and forth, back and forth, sweet friction that set every nerve ending on fire.

"Oh, God," Lauren gasped. "Oh, Julian, yes –"

**

"Vaughn, oh, Vaughn – oh – Michael –"

First name, Vaughn thought with a kick of satisfaction. That's a real, real good sign.

He dipped his face between her thighs, brushing up with his tongue, tasting Sydney's arousal. It was coming back to him now – the way she liked to be touched, the aggressiveness she craved. So he didn't tease her, just went straight after her hot spots – tongue pushing deep inside her, then darting up to circle and suck.

Every moment of hell he'd been through in the last year seemed to have fallen from him, shucked and tossed to the floor like his security-guard uniform. His skin was his own again, drawing warmth from Sydney's hands (on his shoulders), from her feet (against his sides), from her very soul.

She arched up to meet him, angling herself so that he could press in harder. "Michael," Sydney whispered. "Yes, please, yes –"

**

"Yes." It was the only word Jack could speak, could think, as Irina's mouth closed over his cock.

He still had on his tuxedo – it was opened only at the neck and the fly, only where she needed. The skirt of her dress still clung to her hips, but he could at least look down and see the long, sinuous lines of her back, undulating gracefully as she moved.

Then she began sucking, hard, and Jack could no longer see. The world was black and hot, all around him, swirling.

Jack felt her palms against his thighs, broad and strong, and he forced himself to concentrate on them – on any sensation that wasn't just about to make him come. "Irina," he said, pulling at her hands. "Irina, stop."

She stopped, sliding her mouth from around him slowly, so slowly that he knew it for a tease. When at last the heat of her lips was gone, and cool air shivered across his erection, she raised an eyebrow and whispered, "Wasn't I doing it right?"

"You know what you were doing." Jack tugged her up to him, and saw the sardonic smile on her face. Oh, she knew too well. "Come here."

Pausing only to tug her panties away, Irina joined him on the plush couch, straddling him so that her breasts were temptingly near his mouth. Jack dropped one kiss, then another, then looked up into her face at the same moment she reached down, grasping him in her firm grip, angling him just so.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her. But he knew the words could only hurt them both. And Jack was tired of the pain; for now, for this moment, it was behind them.

Irina lowered herself onto him, enfolding him in her heat, and Jack pulled her face to his for a desperate kiss.

**

Sark let Lauren get close – so very, very close – then tossed the shirt aside, delighting in her whimpers. "But – Julian –"

"Hands and knees," he said, scooping the diamonds up from her belly. "Do it. Now."

Lauren obeyed, sliding onto the floor of the limo, palms and thighs spread wide. He loved the way her white skin looked against the black interior; cocking his head, he let the diamonds spill onto her back, brilliant in their varied colors. Perfection, he thought, taking her hips in his hands, looking only at the blue and green glints of light off the jewels' facets. Absolute perfection.

Then he shoved into Lauren, taking her hard, and fast, speeding up and going harder, not listening to her cries of pleasure or pain or both, getting lost in the sheer exhilaration. Every moment, every heartbeat, brought him closer and closer and closer –

**

Tears welled behind Sydney's eyelids, tears of joy and pleasure and pure relief. Vaughn was inside her – inside her – just the way she'd wanted him to be, just the way they should have been so long ago.

He was above her, thrusting slowly, taking his time. That lazy, sleepy grin on his face – oh, she remembered that, from a hundred nights in bed and one night in a quarantine unit that sort of seemed to count. And the joy bursting forth in her – more than physical, this light that seemed to be shining from her skin – she remembered that too.

It's all still there, Sydney thought, moving with him, breathing in as he breathed out. Everything we were – it's all still there, waiting for us to find it once more.

**

Jack couldn't hold Irina close enough, couldn't kiss her as deeply as he wanted, no matter how he tried. For a few moments, they would move together – hungry, desperate thrusts, as eagerly received as given – but then they would stop to kiss again, to simply rest her cheek against his, or to look into each other's eyes.

His palms slid up and down her bare back, and he imagined the fragility of her -- bones and breath, heart and blood. Even Irina's strength could not last forever. Even his own ingenuity could not hold. Every time they were together now felt like the last time, but Jack had learned what he hadn't known as a young man: Every time had always been the last time. There was never a moment when they were more than a day's bad fortune from being torn apart, and every night they'd spent together, every kiss they'd shared, every time he'd so much as held her hand had been nothing but the purest luck. Even the illusion of a future had been torn from them long ago, and Jack could feel himself trying to sink into her beyond separation.

Stay with me, his body said, as he tried to get deeper, and deeper, and again. Never leave me.

But that was the realm of the impossible, and the heat between them demanded what they could take here and now. Irina arched her spine, changing the angle of their joining, and Jack let his head fall back. The tension built within him, concentrating his entire being into one pinprick of light, and then –

He breathed out, "Oh –"

**

Lauren screamed, "My –"

**

Vaughn clutched Sydney's hips and groaned, "GOD."

**

A jet shuddering through the pale pink sky overhead made Will wince and cover his ears; on one hand, it was good that their cab was getting close to the airport, but damn, that was loud. Dixon looked pained too, but Marshall's good mood at their escape was unquenchable. "I was the card wizard, my friend. I mean, I know it's kinda strange, taking satisfaction in something that's so easy for me, but having all those people clapping and cheering? It's a high." Marshall sighed, then punched Will on the shoulder. "What about you? What did you do after our gaming-floor rendezvous?"

"Went up to the hotel room," Will shrugged. "Watched free porn."

Dixon and Marshall both smiled and nodded. "Ah, yes," Marshall said. "Everybody loves free porn."

**

CONCLUDED IN CHAPTER NINE


	9. Chapter 9

"I think I lost an earring," Irina said.

Jack stopped buttoning up his shirt to look for it; amid all the shining bits of glass, now brilliant in the early-morning light, it was hard to see. But then he found it, a tiny pebble of color in the shag carpeting.

"Here," he said, stepping closer to put it back in her ear himself. For her part, Irina finished buttoning up his shirt, then retied his bow tie. For a moment Jack remembered a long-ago holiday party they'd been late to, for much the same reason.

Irina slid her arms around his waist as he tucked a few loose strands of her hair back into one of the clips. "When did you learn to fix a woman's hair?"

"Sydney, when she was small." After he'd lost – Laura, he'd occasionally had to get Sydney ready for school in the morning when the nanny wasn't there, which meant creating the odd ponytail or braid. Jack could have put together an assault rifle in the dark, but he had sweated during his efforts to make Sydney's hair look right. Little girls could be so vicious to each other when the smallest thing was out of place; he hated the thought of getting it wrong.

"I should have taught you," she said. "Before I went."

Strange, Jack thought, that she hadn't said she should never have gone.

When at last he was done, their eyes met. Irina whispered, "I'm glad you were here."

"And I'm glad you were." There were so many things Jack still didn't understand, so many wounds that remained unhealed. But he couldn't regret that they'd had one more chance to be together.

"In the days ahead," Irina said, "do what you have to do. I'll understand."

What did that mean? There was only one possible reply: "So will I."

"No goodbyes." They kissed once, softly, her fingertips brushing against his cheek. The urge to capture her in his arms, to hold her tight and never let go, was strong – but Jack kept his hands at his sides as she stepped back and walked away.

**

At the front desk, Katya sealed the envelope – gahh, glue tasted horrid – and then wrote upon it in large letters: FOR MARGO. After all, she didn't really need $50,000, never mind the difficulty of getting so much cash through customs. And she still felt horribly guilty about having struck that poor woman.

The $40,000 in the envelope should go a long way toward making sure that today would make up for Margo's yesterday. Surely she'd have no scars that couldn't be healed by, say, a new car? As for the other $10,000 -- Katya mulled the possibilities. There was always that splendid vintage goddess dress, the cream-colored Versace --

Her cellphone chimed in the particular signal that meant Jack had an announcement for them all. She handed Margo's envelope to the clerk with a smile as she answered.

"Everyone is to depart now," Jack said. "Abort any continuing retrieval operations. Take all items acquired with you to the appointed place of departure. The cat is out of the bag. Watchtower out."

No personal farewell, then. No hint of if, or when, she might expect to see Jack Bristow again. Katya didn't mind that; she was content to trust in her own wild luck.

She had no appointed place of departure. From now on she was on her own. So Katya pulled out the tag for her rental car and handed it to the valet. Really, she'd never expected to pick it up again, but she rather liked it.

Jack had said that the cat was out of the bag. She knew what that meant. Tapping a few codes in on the cell phone, she sent a patterned ultraresonance signal through the ether. There would be those who were looking for it, and she knew what they'd find.

For you, Jack, Katya thought. Take that, Arvin Sloane, you son of a bitch.

**

Just as Sark fastened the last button on his shirt, the limousine door opened to reveal Olivia – soaking wet and furious. "Good God," he said, not even remotely disturbed by the fact that this woman's daughter was obviously still pulling on her clothes next to him. "What happened to you?"

"Turned out Jack Bristow had a few surprises of his own," Olivia said. She flopped heavily into the car, scrolling down the privacy shield to gesture to the driver. "I'd like to discuss those surprises with Mr. Sloane."

"I should rather like to talk with him about that myself." This entire plan, Sark thought, had been a disaster from start to finish. They'd predicted most of Jack Bristow's moves, but not his mistakes, and one had been equally as critical as the other. It would be a long time before he allowed himself to be guided so completely again by Arvin Sloane. This meant, essentially, being guided by Arvin Sloane's ego, which became more profoundly separated from reality all the time. His anger battled with his exhaustion as he said, "Yes. Let's find Sloane. Let's have – a chat."

**

Sydney, giddy and jubilant, ran out to the taxi stand, the tail of her Hawaiian shirt trailing behind her. "Taxi! Hey, taxi!"

Vaughn's arm slipped around her shoulders; he had on a white Izod shirt, a sun visor and a disposal camera on a lanyard around his neck. He grinned and shook his head as he leaned toward the cabstand guy. "We are this close to missing our flight back to Boise."

Boise, she thought. It sounded like paradise. Oh, man, did she have it bad.

As the cab pulled up, she met Vaughn's eyes; he let his arm drop from her shoulders, but he didn't stop smiling. "I know this isn't the end," he said in a low voice. "It's barely even the beginning."

"We kinda sped things up here. In a good way!"

"In a very, very good way." Vaughn's smile broadened.

She ducked her head away from his, so she could concentrate on what she was saying, not what she was feeling. "But we can't take it from here and pretend the last couple years didn't happen. We should -- go back to square one. Start over. Take it slow."

"I can do that. I'd really love to do that." Vaughn slipped on the sunglasses; the day promised to be a brilliant one. "We did kind of get gypped out of the whole first-date thing, you know. One minute we couldn't talk in public; the next we were giving each other drawers at our apartments. We never got to try the simple stuff. Dinner and a movie. Flowers. That kind of thing. I think – I think maybe we need some of that."

"Yeah, we do." Sydney felt the morning breeze blowing through her hair. For a few seconds she was just another happy young bride. From Boise. "I think I'm overdue for some courtship."

"Courtship," Vaughn said. "And therapy. Coming right up."

**

Only when Jack boarded the CIA's plane was he entirely reassured that the unforeseen problems in the plan hadn't proved unduly harmful. Weiss, Dixon and Marshall all looked the worse for wear, but none of them appeared to have any injuries more serious than bruises. Will Tippin was ebullient, greeting Sydney with a huge hug. Sydney, for her part, looked happier than Jack had seen her in far too long – as did Vaughn, who appeared to be suspiciously relaxed. Certain possibilities occurred to Jack in the brief instant before he decided that some questions were best left unasked.

"Everyone's all right," Dixon said; he was holding a cold can of soda to a welt on the side of his face, suggesting that "all right" was a relative term. "But Jack – what the hell happened here?"

"Yeah, Dad." Sydney sat down next to him as the plane's door was shut and the engines began to rev for takeoff. "Why wasn't the Waning Moon in the vault anymore?"

"It was never there," Jack replied. He'd known this moment was inevitable, but he still didn't relish the frown on Dixon's face. "I always intended for you to steal the diamonds, Sydney, and for Sark to steal the diamonds from you. It was the only way for him to feel that he'd genuinely gotten away with them against our will – and therefore, not to ask himself certain pertinent questions."

Dixon's scowl deepened. "What questions would those be?"

Jack leaned back in his seat. "Whether or not the diamonds he was absconding with, in the company of Lauren Reed and Arvin Sloane, wouldn't have a separate security device attached. A 1280 model security device, able to be activated and detected over a distance of more than 1000 miles."

"The device around the neck of the bag," Sydney said, sitting upright as she remembered. "I nearly dismantled it. I came this close –"

"But you didn't," Jack said.

"Ooooh, those babies are sweet." Marshall, at least, liked the plan. "To trip them off, all you have to do is send a patterned ultraresonance signal, and whammo. If, of course, the local authorities are looking for the signal –"

"They are," Jack said. "And the signal's been sent." He realized that he was utterly certain of Katya's cooperation; no matter what else had happened with her after their departure, he had no doubts about her ability and determination to follow through on the plan. That was – appealing. And disquieting. Jack then resolved to think about Katya again some other time, when his head was clear.

"This was all your setup," Dixon said. "Your little game to catch Arvin Sloane."

"I repeatedly asked the CIA to go after Sloane. Time after time, I was denied. We didn't need further resources, only permission. We didn't get it. So I took it."

"I think I'm supposed to fire you now," Dixon said. But instead, he leaned back and crossed his long legs. "But you know what? As long as we catch the son of a bitch, or even get close enough to make him sweat -- I don't give a damn."

**

Lauren, still tingling from her adventure with Julian, relaxed in the back seat of the car her mother was driving toward their getaway plane. Julian had run entirely out of steam and dozed off – poor thing, he'd been struck far too often. This was fine with Lauren, as she could now devote her full attention to the conversation in the front seat.

"It couldn't have been Irina Derevko," Sloane insisted. They had switched to this car after rendezvousing with him; Lauren personally suspected that Sark would want to grill the man next, assuming he survived her mother's fury. "If Irina had been there – she would have sought me out."

"I know Derevko's face!" Contradiction made her mother furious, as Lauren remembered all too well. "I've seen Sydney and Nadia; this woman was their mother. Besides, the interaction with Jack Bristow – you can't fake that kind of thing."

Sloane pulled himself upright; Lauren wondered what she would see in his eyes if he hadn't been wearing mirrored sunglasses. "Jack Bristow is nothing to Irina Derevko. Only a man she used and discarded long ago."

Her mother just laughed. "Believe what you want. Men so often do. But women – we see the truth. And the truth is that Jack Bristow is more important to Irina Derevko than you realize."

Lauren cocked her head. "Is that a siren?"

It was.

"Probably just coincidence," Sloane said. "Remain calm."

But her mother's eyes were flickering toward the rear-view mirror. "No. No, I don't think so."

"We're tagged." Lauren began grabbing items the CIA had given them – the wig, Julian's cell phone – and throwing them from the car windows. "They've tagged us!"

"Did you eat or drink anything with Jack Bristow?" Mom demanded.

"No," Sloane said. "Never again."

The bag! Lauren grabbed it and threw, realizing only as it left her hand that it had weight and heft, that something was inside –

\--that Julian had put the diamonds back in the bag.

They glittered as they flew into the air behind the car, pink and blue and yellow in the morning light, before they fell to the asphalt like so much gravel. They were all she'd stolen, all she'd gotten.

**

"We'll have to find out if the authorities caught up with them later," Jack said. Vaughn couldn't get over it; the guy was as calm as though he was discussing the weather in Portland, Oregon. "But it was a chance worth taking."

"Still, though," Sydney said. "The higher-ups are going to be angry that we didn't get the Waning Moon."

"But we did," Jack replied. "Mr. Vaughn, if you could open up the box of VIP passes you took --?"

Vaughn hesitated, then reached into his tourist's backpack and pulled out the black-and-gray box. Fumbling with the clasp, he opened it to reveal the Waning Moon, shining dully in its sphere of wires.

As everyone stared, Jack said, "All of you assumed that the Waning Moon would be kept under the casino's tightest security – an assumption that Sloane, with his Rambaldi obsession, was certain to share. But to those unfamiliar with Rambaldi, the Waning Moon looks like substandard junk." Vaughn remembered the box in its storage locker, surrounded by watches and class rings – the same kind of junk people regularly lost at poker tables. "I knew that Vaughn would be able to use the distraction created by the diamond robbery to take this, which he was."

"But –" How could he protest this? How could he make it clear how close Jack had come to screwing everything up? "You didn't have any backup on me. Any checks. Any way to make sure I'd done what you sent me to do."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think I had to, Mr. Vaughn." After that, Vaughn couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

"So, in other words, even with everything going crazy – everything went perfectly?" Weiss started to grin. "Outstanding. Absolutely outstanding."

Marshall took the Waning Moon in his hands, cradling it reverently. "You know, guys, I've got the map for the key right here. Depending on the metallurgy, I might be able to whip this thing together here on the flight. We could be listening to Rambaldi before we get back to L.A."

Everyone considered it. It was Sydney who spoke for them all: "You know what? It can wait."

"Until tomorrow," Vaughn agreed, smiling down into her beautiful face.

**

She's really happy, Weiss thought, watching Sydney laughing with Vaughn and Will. And Vaughn – he's gonna be okay. Somehow it was easier, letting her go into a happy future than an uncertain one. Maybe this was love, the real thing, and he had learned to recognize it only by the tracks it left behind; maybe love was being happy that she was happy, even if it didn't have a damn thing to do with him.

"It's crazy," Weiss murmured, not expecting his seatmate Dixon to pay attention. "What women do to you."

"Or what the lack of women does to you," Dixon said. "I'm going to my church singles' group next week. And every week thereafter, until I meet a nice woman. A safe, decent, law-abiding woman. They have them there." His eyes were slightly glazed, and Weiss wasn't sure it was just the blow to the head. "Good women. Missionary women."

Weiss frowned. "Man, you get weird when you're sleep-deprived."

**

"That lady is your aunt? Seriously?" Will couldn't believe it – and then, thinking back, couldn't believe he hadn't seen the resemblance. It wasn't a physical thing, exactly, more that light in their eyes. "That's so wild, Syd."

"She's become friends with Dad." Sydney paused and glanced over her shoulder. "I think it's friends, anyway."

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "You don't think –"

"That 'friends' is a euphemism? I'm not sure." She half-smiled at her father, whose back was to them and showed no sign of hearing the gossip. "But I'm starting to wonder."

"'Friends,' huh?" Well, well, well. At first, Will was depressed that even Jack Bristow had a more active sex life than he did – but then he figured, hey, if Jack can find a girl, anybody can. So there's hope yet. "I'm really glad I met her. She's a good person to talk to."

"You keep saying that." Vaughn no longer looked tired, or angry, or jealous, or anything else but happy. Maybe he didn't know about what had happened with Will and Syd that night a few months ago? Will had no intention of either informing or reminding him, whichever the case would be. "What did she have to say?"

About not being the sidebar, Will wanted to say, but he didn't. He didn't think Sydney or Vaughn had ever worked for a newspaper, so they just wouldn't get it. Besides, maybe you had to be the sidebar once before you could ever understand. "Just – about living life. And having fun."

Sydney considered that, then nodded. "I think that's probably her specialty."

Vaughn smiled at her, and Syd smiled at Vaughn, and Will realized the two of them were having fun themselves. Good, he thought, without a trace of jealousy. It's about time.

**

"I can't wait to get back home," Marshall said, pouring some coffee for himself, then offering a mug to Jack. "Never been away from my Mini-Mitch this long. Just a day, I know, but it seems like forever. And they change so fast at that age! He's probably got a whole new tooth or something."

"Thank you," Jack said, acknowledging the coffee and nothing else. His own memories of Sydney at that age – of coming home from missions to take her in his arms – were inextricably tied up with his memories of Irina as Laura, as his wife. Those memories did not haunt him as they once had; what had been beautiful in them once was becoming less painful to him now. But they were still not open for discussion with Marshall Flinkman.

"It's weird, you know. Before, home was – it was just a place I lived. Well, a place I lived with my mom, but, still, it wasn't the same." Marshall's smile was softer than usual now, his voice more calm.

Jack slipped one hand into his pocket and felt a cold bar of metal there. Carefully, he pulled out a switchblade. Irina's switchblade, the knife she'd used against Olivia.

A symbol of trust.

Marshall said, "Now, it seems like home is wherever Mitchell is. My little guy." He sighed, then nodded toward Sydney. "I guess that means you're already home."

His daughter was here, happy and safe; nothing else mattered, compared to that. The rest would become clear in time. Jack closed his hand around the knife and smiled back at Marshall. "I never thought of it that way before," he said. "But -- I guess I am."

**

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my betas!


End file.
